I no longer market my blog. I mentioned something here about my ending all this marketing a week ago. But, too, you might also know about this new state of affairs from my advertising campaign: "Integrity, Self Sufficiency and the Private Club: clerkmanifesto.com". The billboards were hard to miss, but not everyone drives, and most people who do so have to do it while simultaneously operating a smart phone, which is not as easy as it looks, especially if you've been drinking heavily. But whether or not you've followed that print campaign you have likely enjoyed my reality show that follows my trials and tribulations in this process of not marketing. It is a tale of endurance and fortitude. Perhaps you even bought one of my T-shirts, the one that says "The blog that will not sell itself for fame. Find out more at clerkmanifesto.com!" In the end though I think I best expressed the whole thing in a post that has since gone viral "Ten ways that avoiding clickbait can make you richer, smarter, and healthier!" Item three of that list in particular gets to the crux of the matter:
3. Click this link to find out something that might change your life!
No, don't click anything. I'm just being absurd. Well, absurd with a plan. My plan was to tell you about how in my sudden retirement from marketing I experienced some regret. Then on Tuesday I turned on the radio in my car to the public radio music station. The DJ told me that Jack White had just released a new song, and coming up they were going to play it. I got so excited that I nearly drove onto the sidewalk, like a drunken cell phone user. Then the DJ played a song not at all by Jack White. I was unable to do anything but sit through the song in agony and pain. Then the DJ played another song, and another song, and another song. None of them were by Jack White. I had to go into an appointment. I was very unhappy not to hear the song, but eager to go to my appointment, so I did.
A little more than an hour later I left my appointment, got in my car, and the same DJ on the same radio station said that, coming up, they would play Jack White's new song. Then they proceeded to play Not Jack White's new song until I arrived at work.
That is marketing.
I suddenly felt much better about leaving it behind.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Two percent
So I was walking along the river with a cold wind blowing in my face. A hawk was riding the currents of the sky. Along my river Bald Eagles are common, hawks are more rare. Two black birds circled each other, came together, and bombed the hawk, over and over. Sometimes it all drifted far from me. Sometimes it wandered close. I watched this bird circus the whole way. And while I do not know why it made this come to mind, I thought:
Ninety eight percent of the world is in desperate need of improvement, and two percent is perfect. I should try to split my time equally between them.
Ninety eight percent of the world is in desperate need of improvement, and two percent is perfect. I should try to split my time equally between them.
Friday, April 4, 2014
The mystery fifteen feet away
I suppose this post would have been far more interesting had I not been seized with shyness, or human decency, or a fear of being caught, or the fact that I had other duties to attend to. It could have been any one of these, or likely a combination of all that stopped me.
I was coming down the grand staircase of our library, which isn't really grand, it's just big, and I had a perfect view of the service desk that I work at for a couple of hours each day. Two of my co-workers were helping people, and I was seized with the thought that I could watch that, watch them, entertained and interested, for just about forever. It would be like my dream TV show. It's an opportunity to see people I know engage in a task that I understand minutely, to see different personalities and skill sets collide with a sometimes complicated, ever changing and diverse job. I would know the secret meaning behind every utterance, the detailed reality behind every denied service and behind every indulged exception. In day to day life at my job I am forced to mostly guess and assume about what my co-workers are out there at the front desk doing. Even working next to them I don't really know. They are in my blind spot, or I am busy myself, or it's more polite to engage in my own project while they are helping people. Here I would get to see the whole picture! My curiosity runs the gamut! Are these people I work with nice, racist, condescending, dry, cold, brusque, friendly, lazy, strict, silly, inflexible, pleasant, gentle, fast, slow, ignorant, clever, confused? I am guessing yes, they are, and I sure would like to see it. As we encounter people out in the world we may suspect or wonder which of all these things might be true, but we generally have too small a frame of reference to judge of it properly. Is the Dr. lying to you because they're in a hurry? Do they not know what they're talking about? Are they eliminating a concern based on deep knowledge? I don't know. But when it comes to library clerking, I usually do. And then, besides all this, I am not so overwhelmingly self regarding that I don't hold out an interest in learning more. Surely my colleagues have their share of deft moves, kindnesses, and tricks of the trade I would be delighted to see. The whole thing would be a learning experience in addition to a rich exposé of human interaction.
All of this was laid out before me, but lo, I turned away. Really though, what was I going to do? Stand there on the stairs for an hour? And then I wouldn't have been able to hear what anyone said anyway. I have to be able to hear too! So I, like everyone else, remain half blind to what is all around us. We read novels, watch movies, scoot around the Internet, read a newspaper, ask people how they are, just trying to figure out what all these people all around us are really up to. Mostly, we won't know.
I was coming down the grand staircase of our library, which isn't really grand, it's just big, and I had a perfect view of the service desk that I work at for a couple of hours each day. Two of my co-workers were helping people, and I was seized with the thought that I could watch that, watch them, entertained and interested, for just about forever. It would be like my dream TV show. It's an opportunity to see people I know engage in a task that I understand minutely, to see different personalities and skill sets collide with a sometimes complicated, ever changing and diverse job. I would know the secret meaning behind every utterance, the detailed reality behind every denied service and behind every indulged exception. In day to day life at my job I am forced to mostly guess and assume about what my co-workers are out there at the front desk doing. Even working next to them I don't really know. They are in my blind spot, or I am busy myself, or it's more polite to engage in my own project while they are helping people. Here I would get to see the whole picture! My curiosity runs the gamut! Are these people I work with nice, racist, condescending, dry, cold, brusque, friendly, lazy, strict, silly, inflexible, pleasant, gentle, fast, slow, ignorant, clever, confused? I am guessing yes, they are, and I sure would like to see it. As we encounter people out in the world we may suspect or wonder which of all these things might be true, but we generally have too small a frame of reference to judge of it properly. Is the Dr. lying to you because they're in a hurry? Do they not know what they're talking about? Are they eliminating a concern based on deep knowledge? I don't know. But when it comes to library clerking, I usually do. And then, besides all this, I am not so overwhelmingly self regarding that I don't hold out an interest in learning more. Surely my colleagues have their share of deft moves, kindnesses, and tricks of the trade I would be delighted to see. The whole thing would be a learning experience in addition to a rich exposé of human interaction.
All of this was laid out before me, but lo, I turned away. Really though, what was I going to do? Stand there on the stairs for an hour? And then I wouldn't have been able to hear what anyone said anyway. I have to be able to hear too! So I, like everyone else, remain half blind to what is all around us. We read novels, watch movies, scoot around the Internet, read a newspaper, ask people how they are, just trying to figure out what all these people all around us are really up to. Mostly, we won't know.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
The I in irascible
I have become so fond of the word irascible in the course of writing this blog that I have learned how to spell it. The key is the I in it. Or, more precisely, it is how I is in it a lot, more even than one might think. But while it sometimes seems like the most natural thing in the world for me to be irascible, and I quite like being right there in the center of irascibility, it is one of those states of being that is easy to fall out of. This is because irascible is beset on all sides by competing adjectives. I may start out delightfully irascible, teasing the stuffy rules by which we live, refusing to be held to folly, irreverent, a rascal, irascible, only to start sliding. Irascible drifts out of my grip and soon I catch sight of irritating. I don't want to be irritating! And before I can even start to twist irritating into being somehow a flattering adjective, irksome floods into the conversation. I don't want to be irksome! Irksome is irredeemable. Is this irreversible?
The whole thing may have been doomed from the start. My irascible personality makes me ill disposed to accept the standardized meanings of words. It may be irresponsible of me, but I find it irresistible to put my own improvements into the irrefutable and unchangeable realities of the world. Indeed, it is that tendency in itself that I would describe as irascible. But I have found the dictionaries do not mention such a definition.
Here are some random official dictionary definitions of irascible:
Marked by hot temper and easily provoked anger.
Having or showing a tendency to be easily angered.
Prone to outbursts of temper; easily angered.
This is straight up and down pejorative stuff, and my three sources are in solid agreement. Now here is my definition of irascible. Keep in mind this is based purely on what I think irascible should mean:
A temperament that is playfully antagonistic to the folly in the immutable laws of human nature and the universe.
I don't care that this is not the real definition of irascible. Mine is better. Some fights are worth fighting even if they are irrational. And though my position may be irreconcilable, irruptive, and, yes, irksome to some. It is irascible, and therefore it is beautiful.
The whole thing may have been doomed from the start. My irascible personality makes me ill disposed to accept the standardized meanings of words. It may be irresponsible of me, but I find it irresistible to put my own improvements into the irrefutable and unchangeable realities of the world. Indeed, it is that tendency in itself that I would describe as irascible. But I have found the dictionaries do not mention such a definition.
Here are some random official dictionary definitions of irascible:
Marked by hot temper and easily provoked anger.
Having or showing a tendency to be easily angered.
Prone to outbursts of temper; easily angered.
This is straight up and down pejorative stuff, and my three sources are in solid agreement. Now here is my definition of irascible. Keep in mind this is based purely on what I think irascible should mean:
A temperament that is playfully antagonistic to the folly in the immutable laws of human nature and the universe.
I don't care that this is not the real definition of irascible. Mine is better. Some fights are worth fighting even if they are irrational. And though my position may be irreconcilable, irruptive, and, yes, irksome to some. It is irascible, and therefore it is beautiful.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Who parks where
Standing in the breakroom, drinking my first maple coldpress of the year (milk, maple syrup, coldpress coffee) I gazed idly out the windows and became fascinated by our parking spaces, particularly our preferred parking spaces.
"Hey" you may be thinking "That is not fascinating. That is not fascinating at all!" And I will not argue with you, mostly because my arguments with hypothetical people tend to grow quickly out of control. But I will say this:
Fascination is relative.
I am upstairs in fiction, facing a wall of books. Curiously enough Finnegans Wake is not far to my right (see my recent blog posts on this), along with Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. There's a nice, vintage copy of The Castle. Oh, and Henry James. Do I like Henry James? I can't remember. I do like the binding of this book, We the Drowned, though I've never heard of it. It has a boat in a stylized sea. I turn around and there is a novel called Treasure Island!!! by Sara Levine. It catches my eye. So then, with this and so much more, what shall I be fascinated by? I don't know. I don't know! There is too much and I am overwhelmed. I am fascinated by everything and nothing. I am inclined to refrain rather than reach out.
But, hey, let's grab a book completely at random. All the Flowers in Shanghai, by Duncan Jepson. Now lock me in a small, windowless room with a nice recliner, lighting, and nothing else. Tell me you'll let me out in a few hours. The chances are good I'll get pretty fascinated with this All the Flowers in Shanghai, even though it is a book I am now happy to return to its place on the shelf. Indeed, I do so without even a glimmer of regret.
Which brings us back to our preferred parking. I don't know whether it is fascinating because there is nothing else to look at out there in the parking lot, or it is so fascinating that it beat out all the other super fascinating things that are going on out in the parking lot, but one way or another it has captured my feverish attention. All afternoon I have been keeping my eye on these parking spots and I am finally ready to share with you what I've learned.
First, let me explain what these preferred parking spaces are. We have:
Traditional handicapped spots, many near the front entrance, and one or two very far from the front entrance, but close to the staff/volunteers entrance.
Reserved carpool and vanpool parking, again, quite a few near the front entrance.
Reserved fuel efficient vehicle parking nearish the front entrance.
Parking for blogging clerks, extremely close to the employee entrance. Naw. Not really. I'd feel kind of funny parking there anyway. Though I am touched by the thought.
Now I will tell you what I have learned, through vigilant spying, about who all parks in these various designated spaces:
1. Traditional handicapped spots.
These spots have a long established tradition and law, and I think it is highly rare that anyone without a handicapped permit is parking in them. Nevertheless the range of the apparent disability in the people emerging from cars in these spots is extreme. The most fascinating thing I have seen with these spaces, on more than one occasion, is people parking in the one of the handicapped spots near the staff entrance, where they emerge from their properly disability certified vehicle, and walk across the whole length of the quite large parking lot, passing dozens of far closer, open spots, to get to the entrance. The privilege itself seems to trump the necessity for the privilege.
2. Reserved for carpool and vanpool parking.
For this kind of spot to have had even a remote shot at a positive effect I believe these signs should read "Reserved for vehicles carrying three or more people". From my spying I have determined that this sign basically reads to people as "A place to park your big van. You may also park here if your vehicle is capable, theoretically, of carrying three or more people".
3. Reserved for fuel efficient vehicle parking.
Like number two this kind of parking spot is part of our being a green, Leed Certified building. Also like number two it is completely ineffective due to overly ambiguous signage. I think when the Prius was more of a fad, in the early days of these signs, they sort of worked because Priuses would come from hundreds of miles away to park in these spots and when none were available they would wait for hours for these fuel efficient spots to open up. The better sign would need to say "Reserved for electric vehicles and vehicles that get 40 MPG or better". I believe the signs are currently understood to say "Reserved for vehicles that are not large SUVs". The exception to this understanding involves the large SUVs that park in these spots because they're confusedly pissed off about the whole thing.
Of course, there were all kinds of other fascinating parking habits I observed in my spying, but that falls outside of the purview of this post. Perhaps I will write about them in another post, but I may be overwhelmed by the wealth of riches and have to turn away. Indeed, to write about them, I may have to be locked in a room, which I sort of am, a big room, the size of a library, for about eight hours, four or five days a week.
"Hey" you may be thinking "That is not fascinating. That is not fascinating at all!" And I will not argue with you, mostly because my arguments with hypothetical people tend to grow quickly out of control. But I will say this:
Fascination is relative.
I am upstairs in fiction, facing a wall of books. Curiously enough Finnegans Wake is not far to my right (see my recent blog posts on this), along with Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. There's a nice, vintage copy of The Castle. Oh, and Henry James. Do I like Henry James? I can't remember. I do like the binding of this book, We the Drowned, though I've never heard of it. It has a boat in a stylized sea. I turn around and there is a novel called Treasure Island!!! by Sara Levine. It catches my eye. So then, with this and so much more, what shall I be fascinated by? I don't know. I don't know! There is too much and I am overwhelmed. I am fascinated by everything and nothing. I am inclined to refrain rather than reach out.
But, hey, let's grab a book completely at random. All the Flowers in Shanghai, by Duncan Jepson. Now lock me in a small, windowless room with a nice recliner, lighting, and nothing else. Tell me you'll let me out in a few hours. The chances are good I'll get pretty fascinated with this All the Flowers in Shanghai, even though it is a book I am now happy to return to its place on the shelf. Indeed, I do so without even a glimmer of regret.
Which brings us back to our preferred parking. I don't know whether it is fascinating because there is nothing else to look at out there in the parking lot, or it is so fascinating that it beat out all the other super fascinating things that are going on out in the parking lot, but one way or another it has captured my feverish attention. All afternoon I have been keeping my eye on these parking spots and I am finally ready to share with you what I've learned.
First, let me explain what these preferred parking spaces are. We have:
Traditional handicapped spots, many near the front entrance, and one or two very far from the front entrance, but close to the staff/volunteers entrance.
Reserved carpool and vanpool parking, again, quite a few near the front entrance.
Reserved fuel efficient vehicle parking nearish the front entrance.
Parking for blogging clerks, extremely close to the employee entrance. Naw. Not really. I'd feel kind of funny parking there anyway. Though I am touched by the thought.
Now I will tell you what I have learned, through vigilant spying, about who all parks in these various designated spaces:
1. Traditional handicapped spots.
These spots have a long established tradition and law, and I think it is highly rare that anyone without a handicapped permit is parking in them. Nevertheless the range of the apparent disability in the people emerging from cars in these spots is extreme. The most fascinating thing I have seen with these spaces, on more than one occasion, is people parking in the one of the handicapped spots near the staff entrance, where they emerge from their properly disability certified vehicle, and walk across the whole length of the quite large parking lot, passing dozens of far closer, open spots, to get to the entrance. The privilege itself seems to trump the necessity for the privilege.
2. Reserved for carpool and vanpool parking.
For this kind of spot to have had even a remote shot at a positive effect I believe these signs should read "Reserved for vehicles carrying three or more people". From my spying I have determined that this sign basically reads to people as "A place to park your big van. You may also park here if your vehicle is capable, theoretically, of carrying three or more people".
3. Reserved for fuel efficient vehicle parking.
Like number two this kind of parking spot is part of our being a green, Leed Certified building. Also like number two it is completely ineffective due to overly ambiguous signage. I think when the Prius was more of a fad, in the early days of these signs, they sort of worked because Priuses would come from hundreds of miles away to park in these spots and when none were available they would wait for hours for these fuel efficient spots to open up. The better sign would need to say "Reserved for electric vehicles and vehicles that get 40 MPG or better". I believe the signs are currently understood to say "Reserved for vehicles that are not large SUVs". The exception to this understanding involves the large SUVs that park in these spots because they're confusedly pissed off about the whole thing.
Of course, there were all kinds of other fascinating parking habits I observed in my spying, but that falls outside of the purview of this post. Perhaps I will write about them in another post, but I may be overwhelmed by the wealth of riches and have to turn away. Indeed, to write about them, I may have to be locked in a room, which I sort of am, a big room, the size of a library, for about eight hours, four or five days a week.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The disdainers of hope
I am wandering around the library trying to come up with a good idea for a blog post. Or, perhaps I should say I am wandering around the library trying to get interested in one of the many blog post ideas fluttering around me. Like little birds, in their dozens they come. They perch on nearby shelves, their heads darting about as I phlegmatically observe them. They hop on the floor. They fly here and there. But somehow I just can't be bothered to reach out.
I suppose this all started with my earlier, abandoned attempt at a blog post. This morning I started a little essay here that possessed such astonishing nihilism that I think it would have impressed even the most passionate disdainers of hope among my readers. That's funny, "Disdainers of hope", like I have all these thousands of readers, among whom there are a couple dozen who disdain hope. Usually I am trying to gently tease the disdainers of hope into hoping just a little, but sometimes I do an end run and am so nihilistic and hope destroying that it makes them feel almost hopeful. Maybe even a few of these hope disdainers, who never comment because, really, what's the point, suddenly find themselves commenting after all. They find they just have to say, hopelessly, that although there is actually no hope, there is not so very little hope as I suggest.
I suppose we won't know if any of that would have happened because I abandoned my nihilistic post a paragraph in. It's not that there was anything wrong with it, really. It probably had more to do with my over fondness for wrapping up my essays with a nice, punchy, final sentence, one that jostles the focus at the last second, providing texture, depth, delineation, and reconsideration. But pithy concluding sentences are kind of unavailable in the truly nihilistic post. One is limited to the following sorts of conclusions:
Which goes to show you may as well stay in bed.
or
And so we will all die, but it would be wrong to take comfort in that.
or
So, um, I guess that's all.
When I finish a post with sentences like that I just can't get that feeling that I've accomplished anything. So I have kept my nihilistic paragraph in my little box of tricks. It's pretty good, but it's unusable.
There it is. And there I was with all those little songbirds of blog post ideas, fiery ones, silly ones, thoughtful ones, but with all that nihilism ringing in my ears I just couldn't get motivated to reach out to any of them. But when I have the least to say to you, I have the strongest need to say it. So I picked this bird, the one you are reading now, the one that was sitting so still and quiet that I thought it might be dead. I have extracted one small "chirp" from it, and set it free to fly about the library once again.
So, um, I guess that's all. And one day we will all be dead. But I guess it will all be okay, don't you think?
I suppose this all started with my earlier, abandoned attempt at a blog post. This morning I started a little essay here that possessed such astonishing nihilism that I think it would have impressed even the most passionate disdainers of hope among my readers. That's funny, "Disdainers of hope", like I have all these thousands of readers, among whom there are a couple dozen who disdain hope. Usually I am trying to gently tease the disdainers of hope into hoping just a little, but sometimes I do an end run and am so nihilistic and hope destroying that it makes them feel almost hopeful. Maybe even a few of these hope disdainers, who never comment because, really, what's the point, suddenly find themselves commenting after all. They find they just have to say, hopelessly, that although there is actually no hope, there is not so very little hope as I suggest.
I suppose we won't know if any of that would have happened because I abandoned my nihilistic post a paragraph in. It's not that there was anything wrong with it, really. It probably had more to do with my over fondness for wrapping up my essays with a nice, punchy, final sentence, one that jostles the focus at the last second, providing texture, depth, delineation, and reconsideration. But pithy concluding sentences are kind of unavailable in the truly nihilistic post. One is limited to the following sorts of conclusions:
Which goes to show you may as well stay in bed.
or
And so we will all die, but it would be wrong to take comfort in that.
or
So, um, I guess that's all.
When I finish a post with sentences like that I just can't get that feeling that I've accomplished anything. So I have kept my nihilistic paragraph in my little box of tricks. It's pretty good, but it's unusable.
There it is. And there I was with all those little songbirds of blog post ideas, fiery ones, silly ones, thoughtful ones, but with all that nihilism ringing in my ears I just couldn't get motivated to reach out to any of them. But when I have the least to say to you, I have the strongest need to say it. So I picked this bird, the one you are reading now, the one that was sitting so still and quiet that I thought it might be dead. I have extracted one small "chirp" from it, and set it free to fly about the library once again.
So, um, I guess that's all. And one day we will all be dead. But I guess it will all be okay, don't you think?
Monday, March 31, 2014
And so it is just us
I was shelving once again. I had my cart and me in my roughly four foot wide space between the bookshelves. A woman was coming through and I needed to make some space for her. And I was off onto the subject of this post.
My initial thought on the right of way in the fiction stacks is that I, who am working, have primacy. I am moving through. I am benefiting the community as a whole with my shelving. I can be worked around. My tireless labor must be respected. But when I think about this again I understand that naturally I want to see it this way. It is more convenient to me. I am shelving. I have my rhythm and my goals. I have my bubble, and I want everyone to stay out of my way.
But the truth is, I am being paid. And paid, as I am, my time is less valuable because it is rewarded by default. If I defer to a patron in the "F's", and have to stand around for a minute, maybe writing some amusing observations down on my pad of post it notes (oh how you will laugh when I tell you!), I will be receiving roughly 35 cents in the process. If a patron stands around for a minute to let me work my way through, they start out not with spare change, but rather by losing a minute of their precious life. They're on their own for any rewards to pull from the situation beyond that. Both of us may or may not make some extra use of our waiting minute, but only I get a quarter and a dime no matter what.
So with all this in my mind, as the lady passed through, in my row where I was shelving like a madman, I stopped shelving and pulled my cart all the way over. Way over. I reduced my space consumption a bare third of the aisle space available, all at the cost of my time and workflow, so that she could proceed without much slowing or delay in her time, which was precious. The space was open. We nodded politely as she passed through, and then she crashed into my cart.
My initial thought on the right of way in the fiction stacks is that I, who am working, have primacy. I am moving through. I am benefiting the community as a whole with my shelving. I can be worked around. My tireless labor must be respected. But when I think about this again I understand that naturally I want to see it this way. It is more convenient to me. I am shelving. I have my rhythm and my goals. I have my bubble, and I want everyone to stay out of my way.
But the truth is, I am being paid. And paid, as I am, my time is less valuable because it is rewarded by default. If I defer to a patron in the "F's", and have to stand around for a minute, maybe writing some amusing observations down on my pad of post it notes (oh how you will laugh when I tell you!), I will be receiving roughly 35 cents in the process. If a patron stands around for a minute to let me work my way through, they start out not with spare change, but rather by losing a minute of their precious life. They're on their own for any rewards to pull from the situation beyond that. Both of us may or may not make some extra use of our waiting minute, but only I get a quarter and a dime no matter what.
So with all this in my mind, as the lady passed through, in my row where I was shelving like a madman, I stopped shelving and pulled my cart all the way over. Way over. I reduced my space consumption a bare third of the aisle space available, all at the cost of my time and workflow, so that she could proceed without much slowing or delay in her time, which was precious. The space was open. We nodded politely as she passed through, and then she crashed into my cart.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
And the gates shut
Here are golden tickets. Here are ancient and complicated keys, and some arcane passwords to let you in here. Here is a map. Yes, that's you on the map! See, if you turn your head the little stick figure on the map turns its head too! Here are mysterious instructions with little puzzles, you have to press the bricks in the right order. Notice how the bricks look like letters if you look at them right. B-R-R-A-I-Y-L. Here is a portal stone, activate it anywhere. Walk through and it comes out right here.
There is a "Follow by Email" window on the right side of this blog. You sign up and here blooms into your den or office or workstation like a magical clockwork, a pop-up book. Here is an enchanted guidebook. You open it once and it shows you a secret path through the ivy, open it again, a transporting spell that's easily concocted out of a few bird feathers and a bit of coffee grounds, open it again and it simply tells you to type "clerkmanifesto" into any search engine. The guide book has but one page, but it's different every time you open it, and, of course, it always tells you a way to get here. This steaming vial, all glowing green, has a potion that when swallowed allows you to pass through the stone walls surrounding this place like they are mere illusions, which they very well may be. The vial refills on its own in time.
So take whatever you want. Take keys and potions and enchanted guides. Yes, I have another of the guides, here you are. The golden tickets? Just brandish one at any gate or door and instantly I will be there letting you in. Sure, take as many as you like. Take all five golden tickets.
Okay, is everyone all set? Does everyone have what they want? Good, now I will tell you what's up.
Picture this blog as a castle, a grand Kyotoesque amusement park, a library of dreams. No, wait, picture this blog as an elaborate half-mad Chocolate Factory. Or picture it how you like, but let it be a place. Part of me lives in this place, and everyday I make something new here to see and do. I love this. So I keep doing it and will continue to keep doing it, maybe forever. Who knows. And everyday people come, you, you come, with your ancient keys and enchanted guidebooks and your email subscriptions, through secret passages and prior knowledge. You may not even know that there is a grand entrance to this place, so accustomed as you are with your own route and way, that there is a grand entrance with whimsical carvings of imaginary animals and famed bookpeople, velvet banners and exotic flowers, great walls of stone and glorious golden and iron gates flung wide open in a 24 hour welcome. You may never use these gates, or ever enter that way, but it is our subject today. It is our subject because after today, after this post, I am shutting and locking those public gates. Mosses and molds will bloom on the statuary. The great path leading to the gates will sprout weeds. The delicate, exotic flowers lining the Promenade will die, and then they will stand in skeletal dominion over nothing. The golden brick path will crack, and no one will ever enter again through the main gates. And, perhaps even more importantly, no one will leave again by the main gates. Not even me.
Yes, everyday I make something new here. And I love it. But most days, not all days, but many, many days I venture out of my great gates and seek visitors. I walk out the beautifully kept, quiet grand avenue that leads to my gates, and out into the bustling Internet. Out there I ask people to come visit my blog. "Hey Mister." I say. "Hey Lady." I say. I post notices where I can. The denizens of the Internet sometimes tear them down faster than I can put them up. Mostly I am treated as a nuisance while things that appall me seem respected. Most people seem unkind, or disinterested, or think I am doing something I am not. Mostly I feel ignored, even when people walk down my elaborate avenue, through my glorious gates, and into my blog. "Meh." They mostly say. And they walk out without looking at anything but the first thing they see. Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands of them now. Every once in awhile someone is kind to me. "Sure, I'll go to your blog." They say. And they go and look around. It makes me feel happy. They say "It's very nice. I'll come back." And sometimes they do. This all is called marketing. I am not good at it. I don't think I like it. It draws me like a moth, or an alcoholic. I know I don't like it.
I go out in the Internet and I post my notices on Google Plus pages of all kinds, on Facebook, on Reddit, on a Bob Dylan site, whatever seems appropriate for the moment, for the day's event on the blog. And people come, sometimes. They come for their one visit. Through my gates and out. Maybe they even get caught by my sign a second time and come again, hardly remembering their first time. "Huh." they say. And they go.
I hate them.
I really don't want to hate them, but I hate them all, fiercely. I hate everyone who has come here once and just once. I hate Facebook and Expecting Rain the Bob Dylan Website and Google Plus and all its myriad pages I have added to, the library page and the wisdom page, and the humor page. And I also hate everyone who has never come here. I hate Stumbleupon and implacable search rankings and spam comments, and Reddit, god how I hate Reddit, and I hate everywhere I have every posted. I despise and loathe them all. I wish a plague on them, terrible things. And I don't want to. I really don't want to. But I do.
I am not unalterably, unremittingly opposed to hatred and bitterness, but I know their dangers and how rarely they can be employed for profit. And I know that most of my unusable hatred and bitterness in all this is stirred by my leaving myself, and by leaving here.
So I am closing the gates. I will not venture out again. Ever. For any reason. And I will not invite anyone in. They must find the way on their own. The main entrance is shut. It is locked. And it is done. I will not market seriously or in jest. I will not market hopelessly or dreaming great things. I will not market at all. The gate, ponderous, swings and clicks locked. I wrap it in thick chains and lock those. I toss the key into a nearby sewer grate.
You with your golden tickets and guidebooks and email subscriptions, with your clerkmanifesto Firefox bookmark and magic potions remain ever welcome. Your visit is treasured. You can bring anyone you want anyway you want, come and go as you please. There are no restrictions. I don't think anything will really change in this for you. As I said, most of you have never even seen the Gates. All the thousand secret entrances remain fiercely open. Clerkmanifesto will remain as it always was.
But for me I will watch the toy numbers of all my viewers drop, like a leaky balloon when the air stops being pumped into it. I will try not to look at numbers. Eventually I will make a tenuous peace with that. I will struggle over and over to keep to my vow, and I will never leave here again.
I will go into my tower, or my workshop, or to my post it notes in the fiction stacks. I will go to my computer in my icy basement, and I will make things. Everything I can think of. And the lights will go up. There will be fireworks and rare coffees and chocolate rivers and paragraphs about nothing and everything. It will be a wonderland and a fire and a close look at almost nothing, words and lies and everything Lao-Tzu dreamed a blog would be.
But never again will it be for a stranger of any kind.
Forever more it will only be for me, and this, and us.
There is a "Follow by Email" window on the right side of this blog. You sign up and here blooms into your den or office or workstation like a magical clockwork, a pop-up book. Here is an enchanted guidebook. You open it once and it shows you a secret path through the ivy, open it again, a transporting spell that's easily concocted out of a few bird feathers and a bit of coffee grounds, open it again and it simply tells you to type "clerkmanifesto" into any search engine. The guide book has but one page, but it's different every time you open it, and, of course, it always tells you a way to get here. This steaming vial, all glowing green, has a potion that when swallowed allows you to pass through the stone walls surrounding this place like they are mere illusions, which they very well may be. The vial refills on its own in time.
So take whatever you want. Take keys and potions and enchanted guides. Yes, I have another of the guides, here you are. The golden tickets? Just brandish one at any gate or door and instantly I will be there letting you in. Sure, take as many as you like. Take all five golden tickets.
Okay, is everyone all set? Does everyone have what they want? Good, now I will tell you what's up.
Picture this blog as a castle, a grand Kyotoesque amusement park, a library of dreams. No, wait, picture this blog as an elaborate half-mad Chocolate Factory. Or picture it how you like, but let it be a place. Part of me lives in this place, and everyday I make something new here to see and do. I love this. So I keep doing it and will continue to keep doing it, maybe forever. Who knows. And everyday people come, you, you come, with your ancient keys and enchanted guidebooks and your email subscriptions, through secret passages and prior knowledge. You may not even know that there is a grand entrance to this place, so accustomed as you are with your own route and way, that there is a grand entrance with whimsical carvings of imaginary animals and famed bookpeople, velvet banners and exotic flowers, great walls of stone and glorious golden and iron gates flung wide open in a 24 hour welcome. You may never use these gates, or ever enter that way, but it is our subject today. It is our subject because after today, after this post, I am shutting and locking those public gates. Mosses and molds will bloom on the statuary. The great path leading to the gates will sprout weeds. The delicate, exotic flowers lining the Promenade will die, and then they will stand in skeletal dominion over nothing. The golden brick path will crack, and no one will ever enter again through the main gates. And, perhaps even more importantly, no one will leave again by the main gates. Not even me.
Yes, everyday I make something new here. And I love it. But most days, not all days, but many, many days I venture out of my great gates and seek visitors. I walk out the beautifully kept, quiet grand avenue that leads to my gates, and out into the bustling Internet. Out there I ask people to come visit my blog. "Hey Mister." I say. "Hey Lady." I say. I post notices where I can. The denizens of the Internet sometimes tear them down faster than I can put them up. Mostly I am treated as a nuisance while things that appall me seem respected. Most people seem unkind, or disinterested, or think I am doing something I am not. Mostly I feel ignored, even when people walk down my elaborate avenue, through my glorious gates, and into my blog. "Meh." They mostly say. And they walk out without looking at anything but the first thing they see. Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands of them now. Every once in awhile someone is kind to me. "Sure, I'll go to your blog." They say. And they go and look around. It makes me feel happy. They say "It's very nice. I'll come back." And sometimes they do. This all is called marketing. I am not good at it. I don't think I like it. It draws me like a moth, or an alcoholic. I know I don't like it.
I go out in the Internet and I post my notices on Google Plus pages of all kinds, on Facebook, on Reddit, on a Bob Dylan site, whatever seems appropriate for the moment, for the day's event on the blog. And people come, sometimes. They come for their one visit. Through my gates and out. Maybe they even get caught by my sign a second time and come again, hardly remembering their first time. "Huh." they say. And they go.
I hate them.
I really don't want to hate them, but I hate them all, fiercely. I hate everyone who has come here once and just once. I hate Facebook and Expecting Rain the Bob Dylan Website and Google Plus and all its myriad pages I have added to, the library page and the wisdom page, and the humor page. And I also hate everyone who has never come here. I hate Stumbleupon and implacable search rankings and spam comments, and Reddit, god how I hate Reddit, and I hate everywhere I have every posted. I despise and loathe them all. I wish a plague on them, terrible things. And I don't want to. I really don't want to. But I do.
I am not unalterably, unremittingly opposed to hatred and bitterness, but I know their dangers and how rarely they can be employed for profit. And I know that most of my unusable hatred and bitterness in all this is stirred by my leaving myself, and by leaving here.
So I am closing the gates. I will not venture out again. Ever. For any reason. And I will not invite anyone in. They must find the way on their own. The main entrance is shut. It is locked. And it is done. I will not market seriously or in jest. I will not market hopelessly or dreaming great things. I will not market at all. The gate, ponderous, swings and clicks locked. I wrap it in thick chains and lock those. I toss the key into a nearby sewer grate.
You with your golden tickets and guidebooks and email subscriptions, with your clerkmanifesto Firefox bookmark and magic potions remain ever welcome. Your visit is treasured. You can bring anyone you want anyway you want, come and go as you please. There are no restrictions. I don't think anything will really change in this for you. As I said, most of you have never even seen the Gates. All the thousand secret entrances remain fiercely open. Clerkmanifesto will remain as it always was.
But for me I will watch the toy numbers of all my viewers drop, like a leaky balloon when the air stops being pumped into it. I will try not to look at numbers. Eventually I will make a tenuous peace with that. I will struggle over and over to keep to my vow, and I will never leave here again.
I will go into my tower, or my workshop, or to my post it notes in the fiction stacks. I will go to my computer in my icy basement, and I will make things. Everything I can think of. And the lights will go up. There will be fireworks and rare coffees and chocolate rivers and paragraphs about nothing and everything. It will be a wonderland and a fire and a close look at almost nothing, words and lies and everything Lao-Tzu dreamed a blog would be.
But never again will it be for a stranger of any kind.
Forever more it will only be for me, and this, and us.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
How to make an Internet list
Sometimes, right here on clerkmanifesto, I make a list, an Internet list. Because I have now made rather a few of these lists people have begun to ask me "Hey, how do you make an Internet list?", or they would ask me if it ever came up. But sometimes things only come up when they want to come up, and then they really, really take their time about it and only finally come up when no one appropriate is around to be asked about it. So that is why I thought it would be a good idea if I set down, in a conveniently accessible spot, my guide to:
How to make an Internet list
1. Pick a number for your list. This is single most important element of your list and must go first. Ten is very popular, but a number like six can indicate seriousness and a commitment to the weightiness of each list item. I picked eight before I had the faintest whiff of an idea of this.
2. Pick a subject. You have to match this to your number. If you chose twenty, for instance, you don't want a subject like "Fundamental concepts of Lao-Tzu" as you will quickly get stretched way too thin. You would be better off here with "The twenty ways of spelling Lao-Tzu's name". But beyond this issue of matching, the subject itself is as inconsequential as a blank canvas.
3. Always begin with your most important point. Don't hold back for later. If your list is "Five things I love about the color green" you may start with "1. My God! It's green! What else could anyone ask for?" This throws down the gauntlet. Your readers are on the one hand dazzled, thinking "The whole list has already been justified and completed in the first point!" and tantalized "What could possibly be number two now?"
4. Throw in a short, curt one.
5. Somewhere around the middle of your list, open out your subject. This isn't just about green, or Lao-Tzu, it's about us spinning in all the vastness of space, doomed and magical. It's about how lists themselves are avenues to spiritual awakening even when they're about "My eight favorite pairs of shoes I ever had".
6. If you go too weighty it's a good idea to get a little bit self deprecatingly humorous to break things up a bit, as in "16. Loua tsee, which is a spelling variation no one has used before, but I was so overwhelmed by my list I went and got drunk."
7. Make sure you haven't left anything out. You want to get that kind of thing in before the end. "4. Almost every plant in the world is green!" This adds a burst of urgency and life to your list.
8. Ending your list is more straightforward than with a piece of prose. In fact, you kind of don't want to draw too much attention to the ending. It's not a story or a conclusion, merely the last item. Pick something that might have worked well enough at any other location in your list.
And now you are fully prepared to make an Internet list of your own! I mean, should it come up. Which it could, I mean, it keeps doing so for me.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Service improvements
In the days leading up to our very recent In Service Day we had lots of signs up about how we were going to be closed for "Service Improvements". Patrons asked me several times about these service improvements. Seeing my job as rather more oriented towards providing accurate information (with a small slice of optional entertainment and social commentary on the side), and less oriented towards obfuscating in order to make my library system look better, I always responded to these queries with "No. There are no service improvements coming. We're just closing for In Service Day. There must have been some sort of mix up with the signs."
I suppose, theoretically, a day of informational programming, like In Service Day, could improve something in my library. Maybe it even did. I didn't go to this one so I cannot say absolutely for sure. I also cannot say for sure that aliens didn't freeze everyone at the In Service Day for just a brief minute in order to take some harmless DNA samples before unfreezing everyone. And I won't say. I'm keeping mum on both of those.
I will say this though. I think the whole day would have been far more productive if the whole staff went out for coffee and pastry at Rustica (our town's best bakery), followed by hot air ballooning, followed by a champagne toast. And I think the sign on the door should have said "The library is closed because the whole staff is off hot air ballooning". As much as I think libraries should be open practically all the time, I think this would have been good for everyone involved, even the angry patrons turned away at our doors.
I suppose, theoretically, a day of informational programming, like In Service Day, could improve something in my library. Maybe it even did. I didn't go to this one so I cannot say absolutely for sure. I also cannot say for sure that aliens didn't freeze everyone at the In Service Day for just a brief minute in order to take some harmless DNA samples before unfreezing everyone. And I won't say. I'm keeping mum on both of those.
I will say this though. I think the whole day would have been far more productive if the whole staff went out for coffee and pastry at Rustica (our town's best bakery), followed by hot air ballooning, followed by a champagne toast. And I think the sign on the door should have said "The library is closed because the whole staff is off hot air ballooning". As much as I think libraries should be open practically all the time, I think this would have been good for everyone involved, even the angry patrons turned away at our doors.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Why my library is better than yours
In the great scheme of things, in the world as it should be, my library sucks. I could make a list of 1,000 things that suck about my library. I could start from the little (our fireplaces are gas, not wood burning), and ascend to the largest (each week we spend far more hours closed that we do open). My whole blog could be devoted to the things I would fix, in a fantasy world, about my library and the things that are wrong with my library (see all my links on the right to my series "If I were King of the library" if you want a start on that). But in this world, our cruel world whose misdeeds I need not catalog to anyone sensible, my library is great. It may not be better than yours because libraries are all just great from the start, merely for being what they are amid this mess, but in the majority of cases, enough for me to confidently title this piece after it, my library is better than yours. I mean, unless your library is my library. Then, tie.
Our administrators, the library world, those library magazines and National Librarian Conventions might like to sell you a lot of soap about why my library is better, things about dynamic programs and services and unique features and innovation, but that's all secondary stuff. That's all soap. It's the big stuff that makes my library better. Big, fat, unglamorous stuff. Hours, building, access. I have been to enough libraries to know where my library falls in the rankings of these absolute fundamentals. We are, objectively, pretty crappy, relatively, we are outstanding.
We are open 63 hours a week. Not many public libraries are open that many hours. Some small number are, and a small number inch past us as well, though even then, rarely by much. Nevertheless I doubt we are in anything less than the top 5 percent. Do you want to improve your library? The conversation starts here, more hours. Everything else, while by no means negligible, tends to be small time.
Our building is Leed certified Gold and has won many Architectural awards. Pfui. My library looks eerily similar to a Library in Berlin built more than 30 years earlier than mine, and by any sensible standard my library is a study in small frills, generic, modern, conventional library design. No big high marks there for us. But we are big without being overwhelming. There is a reasonable array of seating choices and environments, and our large, workmanlike collection of books and computers again puts us in the upper ranks. We still have books. A lot. And you can sit somewhere relatively quiet. And there is virtually always an internet computer available.
Finally, we will, if we can, get you access. First off, we are easy to get to and have much fully adequate free parking. We will get you on the internet without much fuss (though not absolutely no fuss). We have a fair variety of softer rules and we are pretty well motivated to get you cards, access, and items. Yes, a third of us will throw weird roadblocks in your way, be unhelpful, or make you go somewhere else in the library to get what you need, but that is the exception. It goes against our culture. There a many other libraries I have encountered where you would have to be wildly lucky to encounter the sane permissiveness and wide ranging help you can usually take for granted at my library. You don't have your card? For god's sake I can use your license. You're not a dog I'm training to carry a library card! I can type your name. Do you just want to get on the Internet? Here's a pass. No questions asked. The Internet is not the key to our vault!
So there it is. I say my library is better than yours. Make your best argument against it. But I don't want to hear about your 3D Printer classes, or your downloadable Automated Requesting Profiling Library Facebook App., or your dynamic community leadership. I want to know how many Nero Wolfe books are on the shelf now. Do you have a comfortable chair? Do you have a copy of Thomas King's Green Grass, Running Water and Kiki's Delivery Service in your system? Will my license suffice, and, and, AND, are you open?
Oh? How late?
Our administrators, the library world, those library magazines and National Librarian Conventions might like to sell you a lot of soap about why my library is better, things about dynamic programs and services and unique features and innovation, but that's all secondary stuff. That's all soap. It's the big stuff that makes my library better. Big, fat, unglamorous stuff. Hours, building, access. I have been to enough libraries to know where my library falls in the rankings of these absolute fundamentals. We are, objectively, pretty crappy, relatively, we are outstanding.
We are open 63 hours a week. Not many public libraries are open that many hours. Some small number are, and a small number inch past us as well, though even then, rarely by much. Nevertheless I doubt we are in anything less than the top 5 percent. Do you want to improve your library? The conversation starts here, more hours. Everything else, while by no means negligible, tends to be small time.
Our building is Leed certified Gold and has won many Architectural awards. Pfui. My library looks eerily similar to a Library in Berlin built more than 30 years earlier than mine, and by any sensible standard my library is a study in small frills, generic, modern, conventional library design. No big high marks there for us. But we are big without being overwhelming. There is a reasonable array of seating choices and environments, and our large, workmanlike collection of books and computers again puts us in the upper ranks. We still have books. A lot. And you can sit somewhere relatively quiet. And there is virtually always an internet computer available.
Finally, we will, if we can, get you access. First off, we are easy to get to and have much fully adequate free parking. We will get you on the internet without much fuss (though not absolutely no fuss). We have a fair variety of softer rules and we are pretty well motivated to get you cards, access, and items. Yes, a third of us will throw weird roadblocks in your way, be unhelpful, or make you go somewhere else in the library to get what you need, but that is the exception. It goes against our culture. There a many other libraries I have encountered where you would have to be wildly lucky to encounter the sane permissiveness and wide ranging help you can usually take for granted at my library. You don't have your card? For god's sake I can use your license. You're not a dog I'm training to carry a library card! I can type your name. Do you just want to get on the Internet? Here's a pass. No questions asked. The Internet is not the key to our vault!
So there it is. I say my library is better than yours. Make your best argument against it. But I don't want to hear about your 3D Printer classes, or your downloadable Automated Requesting Profiling Library Facebook App., or your dynamic community leadership. I want to know how many Nero Wolfe books are on the shelf now. Do you have a comfortable chair? Do you have a copy of Thomas King's Green Grass, Running Water and Kiki's Delivery Service in your system? Will my license suffice, and, and, AND, are you open?
Oh? How late?
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
No fault in the stars
We'll start with our small, inconsequential story, fresh from the front desk, and see if it leads to any valuable life, or library, lessons.
An older woman, walking with the assistance of a cane, approaches me at the front desk. "Perhaps I should have asked about this upstairs" She begins "But there are supposed to be three copies of The Boleyn Inheritance on the shelf. There isn't even one up there!"
"That is odd." I say. I do not say that it is odd enough that I can safely put it at a more than 99 percent likelihood that this is due to her error. "I'll look it up." I add, and I search the catalog. There are indeed three copies of The Boleyn Inheritance that should be on the shelf. I tell her that so far I am finding what she has found. "I could go take a look and see if I can find you a copy." I say, eying her infirmities and fancying a medium length jog in our largish library to put the matter to rest.
"Okay."
I jog upstairs, pass the just ever so little bit slightly curious reference librarians, and go to "G" in fiction, as in "Gregory" as in "Gregory, Philippa" the author of The Boleyn Inheritance. On the bottom shelf, nestled happily together, as if for warmth, are three copies of the book in question. I pull the nicest of the three, and I dash back downstairs.
"They were there." I tell the lady. "But they were on the bottom shelf. It might have looked like the second to the last shelf was the end of the Gregorys. I just need your card and I can check it out to you."
"Oh, no." The woman says. "I'm leaving. I had just wanted to read it in the library."
She leaves.
Which suddenly reminds me of another very recent story. I am informed that one of the Men's Room stall toilets is horribly clogged up and overflowing. I seek out the people whose job it is to deal with this sort of thing. They are not enthusiastic. In the end I resolve that the simplest thing will be for me to personally assess and go from there. One toilet stall is fine. One toilet stall is maybe a little backed up. I try an exploratory flush. We are almost there. One more flush and the toilet is cleared. The job is done.
This reminded me not of another story, but of a fact to be noticed. More than half the time when people bring some issue to me at the desk, a story about a problem, or a flaw with our library, they are wrong. The fault is not in the stars, and we, the library, are the stars. They don't know how things work, why they work that way, or the kinds of mistakes that they themselves are prone to. But they are good at coming to all sorts of conclusions. It is stolen, or it is broken, or it is unjust.
Well, sometimes it is. But I suggest that you be thrice as thorough when you examine an unfamiliar error in a system you do not know well. And be humble about it when you bring it to the front desk. Should you skip being helpful and telling me about these things you might wrong about? No, no, it's all part of what I'm here for. I'm glad to see you, and I often enjoy a little jog.
An older woman, walking with the assistance of a cane, approaches me at the front desk. "Perhaps I should have asked about this upstairs" She begins "But there are supposed to be three copies of The Boleyn Inheritance on the shelf. There isn't even one up there!"
"That is odd." I say. I do not say that it is odd enough that I can safely put it at a more than 99 percent likelihood that this is due to her error. "I'll look it up." I add, and I search the catalog. There are indeed three copies of The Boleyn Inheritance that should be on the shelf. I tell her that so far I am finding what she has found. "I could go take a look and see if I can find you a copy." I say, eying her infirmities and fancying a medium length jog in our largish library to put the matter to rest.
"Okay."
I jog upstairs, pass the just ever so little bit slightly curious reference librarians, and go to "G" in fiction, as in "Gregory" as in "Gregory, Philippa" the author of The Boleyn Inheritance. On the bottom shelf, nestled happily together, as if for warmth, are three copies of the book in question. I pull the nicest of the three, and I dash back downstairs.
"They were there." I tell the lady. "But they were on the bottom shelf. It might have looked like the second to the last shelf was the end of the Gregorys. I just need your card and I can check it out to you."
"Oh, no." The woman says. "I'm leaving. I had just wanted to read it in the library."
She leaves.
Which suddenly reminds me of another very recent story. I am informed that one of the Men's Room stall toilets is horribly clogged up and overflowing. I seek out the people whose job it is to deal with this sort of thing. They are not enthusiastic. In the end I resolve that the simplest thing will be for me to personally assess and go from there. One toilet stall is fine. One toilet stall is maybe a little backed up. I try an exploratory flush. We are almost there. One more flush and the toilet is cleared. The job is done.
This reminded me not of another story, but of a fact to be noticed. More than half the time when people bring some issue to me at the desk, a story about a problem, or a flaw with our library, they are wrong. The fault is not in the stars, and we, the library, are the stars. They don't know how things work, why they work that way, or the kinds of mistakes that they themselves are prone to. But they are good at coming to all sorts of conclusions. It is stolen, or it is broken, or it is unjust.
Well, sometimes it is. But I suggest that you be thrice as thorough when you examine an unfamiliar error in a system you do not know well. And be humble about it when you bring it to the front desk. Should you skip being helpful and telling me about these things you might wrong about? No, no, it's all part of what I'm here for. I'm glad to see you, and I often enjoy a little jog.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Ten reasons not to read this list of ten reasons not to read this list
1. The title sounds way too good to be for real and so is probably just more clickbait.
2. The whole thing looks like a bunch of convoluted negative circular repetitive negative convolutions!
3. Lists are for all the things you need to do, and there is nothing to do here. NOTHING!
4. Lists of ten are highly suspicious because it is too neat a number. Whoever wrote this list probably added two not very good reasons to this list, or maybe even edited an essential element out of this list just to get it to the standard, popular "ten" number.
5. No one in their right mind would make a list like this. If you're seeing it, you are probably hallucinating it as a result of spending too much time on the Internet. Get some fresh air and this list will probably disappear.
6. Internet lists always seem like fun reading, but ultimately leave you feeling empty and lonely and unappeasably hungry for more Internet lists.
7. The bitter taste one experiences when they realize they have been manipulated by reverse psychology lingers long in the mouth.
8. Without kittens, celebrities, self-help suggestions, pictures, recipes, or things to buy, this cannot be a for real Internet list, only a fake Internet list full of fake reasons!
9. Being of such an extremely contrary nature that you would read a list of reasons not to read this list will lead you to dark places in your life.
10. Reading this list that you shouldn't read will cause you to pass the secret test. You do not want to pass the secret test!
2. The whole thing looks like a bunch of convoluted negative circular repetitive negative convolutions!
3. Lists are for all the things you need to do, and there is nothing to do here. NOTHING!
4. Lists of ten are highly suspicious because it is too neat a number. Whoever wrote this list probably added two not very good reasons to this list, or maybe even edited an essential element out of this list just to get it to the standard, popular "ten" number.
5. No one in their right mind would make a list like this. If you're seeing it, you are probably hallucinating it as a result of spending too much time on the Internet. Get some fresh air and this list will probably disappear.
6. Internet lists always seem like fun reading, but ultimately leave you feeling empty and lonely and unappeasably hungry for more Internet lists.
7. The bitter taste one experiences when they realize they have been manipulated by reverse psychology lingers long in the mouth.
8. Without kittens, celebrities, self-help suggestions, pictures, recipes, or things to buy, this cannot be a for real Internet list, only a fake Internet list full of fake reasons!
9. Being of such an extremely contrary nature that you would read a list of reasons not to read this list will lead you to dark places in your life.
10. Reading this list that you shouldn't read will cause you to pass the secret test. You do not want to pass the secret test!
Monday, March 24, 2014
Motive
A slightly cynical person can easily see that there is an ulterior motive for everything, a secret self-serving reason for all our actions. I can very easily be that slightly cynical person, and yet I can also be quite the innocent, thinking that people are random and mercurial and sweet and full of heart. Sometimes a single event can flip me from one mode to the other. "Why is that young man taking that old ladies bag? Hey! HEY! what's... ah, he's helping her. I see. Wow, gosh, he sure is nice. And what lovely manners and facial tattoos." Or the other way "Wow, that sure is nice and thoughtful of my co-worker to take care of that before I replace her there! Oh, no, NO! She's just dumping it there. Ahhhhhh! She's just dumping it there to make it look like it wasn't her fault!"
But like many things there's a mostly complicated middle ground in play. Yesterday I was in the backroom with one of my colleagues. Someone from the front desk came back and asked if one of us could meet a patron at the back loading dock to help them in with multiple bags and boxes of donations. It was a volunteer situation with the caveat that one of us really had to do it. It's an infrequent sort of task, and though I'm not keen on it, I figured I was going to have to take care of it. To my surprise though my co-worker volunteered. I was particularly surprised because this was not one of my most giving, respected co-workers. Still, he has his qualities (though I generally find myself in the minority of those who will speak to them), and I was delighted to enjoy my release from this responsibility. I returned to the tasks at which I was engaged.
About ten or fifteen minutes later I had cause to wonder where my co-worker had gone, I think he was soon to replace me on the machine. I looked out the window. Whatever patron there was dropping off books was gone. My co-worker was smoking a cigarette and walking across the parking lot, apparently to his car. All the light bulbs in my head filled with electricity, and I could see. But here's the thing. It didn't matter. Sure, my co-worker likes helping with donations on the loading dock because it means a long cigarette break and the opportunity to hang out in the parking lot he so loves. But if someone needed help repairing the towel dispenser over by my espresso machine I could easily have had a similar response. All I know is that I didn't have to unload the patron's books and so am grateful for my colleague's efforts. There need be no cynical criticism, there need be nothing more than that simple truth.
The fact that he was five minutes late to relieve me on the machine is another, unrelated issue entirely. That's just how he rolls.
But like many things there's a mostly complicated middle ground in play. Yesterday I was in the backroom with one of my colleagues. Someone from the front desk came back and asked if one of us could meet a patron at the back loading dock to help them in with multiple bags and boxes of donations. It was a volunteer situation with the caveat that one of us really had to do it. It's an infrequent sort of task, and though I'm not keen on it, I figured I was going to have to take care of it. To my surprise though my co-worker volunteered. I was particularly surprised because this was not one of my most giving, respected co-workers. Still, he has his qualities (though I generally find myself in the minority of those who will speak to them), and I was delighted to enjoy my release from this responsibility. I returned to the tasks at which I was engaged.
About ten or fifteen minutes later I had cause to wonder where my co-worker had gone, I think he was soon to replace me on the machine. I looked out the window. Whatever patron there was dropping off books was gone. My co-worker was smoking a cigarette and walking across the parking lot, apparently to his car. All the light bulbs in my head filled with electricity, and I could see. But here's the thing. It didn't matter. Sure, my co-worker likes helping with donations on the loading dock because it means a long cigarette break and the opportunity to hang out in the parking lot he so loves. But if someone needed help repairing the towel dispenser over by my espresso machine I could easily have had a similar response. All I know is that I didn't have to unload the patron's books and so am grateful for my colleague's efforts. There need be no cynical criticism, there need be nothing more than that simple truth.
The fact that he was five minutes late to relieve me on the machine is another, unrelated issue entirely. That's just how he rolls.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Bringing down the quality
Two days ago I passed the first anniversary of this blog. If I have had one goal or strongly articulated ambition it was to blog daily for a year. I have now accomplished this. This leaves me with precisely one open spot for a new goal. I thought it might be nice to make a list of possibilities here before I pick one. I just want to lay a few of them out and take a good look at them.
1. Bring the quality level of this blog down a notch. I am not sure the Internet can take another year of this intense quality of blogging without my breaking the Internet altogether. I have been noticing a great deal of straining in the Internet's seams. If you look to the far right of your screen you may see a little bulging or unevenness. Yes, that's wear and tear from this blog.
2. Make my blog super secret, like one of those speakeasy bars you can only get into if you know the password, which, by the way, is "Swordfish". I wonder if there is a way to make it so that if you try to go to my blog it won't let you in without a secret password.
3. Pick just one character from Winnie the Pooh and attempt to blog for the whole year from their perspective. (Note to self: Do not pick Rabbit or Owl because they suck. Even Alexander Beetle would be better than Rabbit or Owl!)
4. Develop an overwhelming and unrelenting conviction of my geniusness, or get super humble and wise. But pick just one of the above for the whole year. The careening back and forth between the two has left me nauseous for about 80 percent of this past year.
5. Tell one lie in every post as a kind of ritual sacrifice.
6. Don't do anything other than write, no sharing, no posting anywhere, just me and my imaginary world that lives scant inches away from the real one.
7. Secede from the Internet and start my own, much better, Internet. Don't think I won't.
1. Bring the quality level of this blog down a notch. I am not sure the Internet can take another year of this intense quality of blogging without my breaking the Internet altogether. I have been noticing a great deal of straining in the Internet's seams. If you look to the far right of your screen you may see a little bulging or unevenness. Yes, that's wear and tear from this blog.
2. Make my blog super secret, like one of those speakeasy bars you can only get into if you know the password, which, by the way, is "Swordfish". I wonder if there is a way to make it so that if you try to go to my blog it won't let you in without a secret password.
3. Pick just one character from Winnie the Pooh and attempt to blog for the whole year from their perspective. (Note to self: Do not pick Rabbit or Owl because they suck. Even Alexander Beetle would be better than Rabbit or Owl!)
4. Develop an overwhelming and unrelenting conviction of my geniusness, or get super humble and wise. But pick just one of the above for the whole year. The careening back and forth between the two has left me nauseous for about 80 percent of this past year.
5. Tell one lie in every post as a kind of ritual sacrifice.
6. Don't do anything other than write, no sharing, no posting anywhere, just me and my imaginary world that lives scant inches away from the real one.
7. Secede from the Internet and start my own, much better, Internet. Don't think I won't.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
More advice and rainbows
To the best of my knowledge none of my array of managers are aware of this blog. This may be the greatest, and perhaps only, benefit of the fact that my blog readers (hi!) do not like to discuss my blog in any way, but prefer to hold it secretly to their hearts, like a terribly delicate magical treasure of inestimable value that can bear no light or noise.
"Oh, yes." I might say in conversation "I wrote about that just yesterday in my blog."
"Mmm." Says the person I'm talking to, almost inaudibly. Then they drop their voice even more "I read it." And then they excuse themselves immediately to go to a nice, quiet, darkish room where they can make sure everything is okay and illuminated and full of secret rainbows and all that.
Or so I picture it, but I'm pretty sure I'm right. Why, after all, would I load up my blog posts with so many secret rainbows if it weren't like this? And when it comes to my bosses continuing to not read my blog this intense reticence is a very helpful quality. One can not pick up on the chatter in an environment of disciplined radio silence.
Nevertheless I would like to offer a small piece of advice to my managers who do not read this.
If you should happen to come up to the fiction section on some random errand and stumble upon me, theoretically shelving, but actually at that moment intently writing on small post it notes, you should recognize a delicate situation. When I look up, startled out of deepest reverie, you should say, with all the sincerity you can muster "I absolutely trust that everything you do here is ultimately of benefit to the library. Never ever worry, and please do carry on."
And I will say "Thank you."
And then you can say, very quietly so as not to frighten anyone "If you are by any chance writing a blog, I would love more than anything to read it. I would never say anything about it, but would keep it in private pleasure and illumination to myself."
And I will say "I think maybe you already read my blog?"
And then you can say so quietly that I cannot hear you "Mmm." And then "Thank you." And then hurry off to a nice, calm, darkish room where you can check to make sure all the secret rainbows are okay.
Which they are.
"Oh, yes." I might say in conversation "I wrote about that just yesterday in my blog."
"Mmm." Says the person I'm talking to, almost inaudibly. Then they drop their voice even more "I read it." And then they excuse themselves immediately to go to a nice, quiet, darkish room where they can make sure everything is okay and illuminated and full of secret rainbows and all that.
Or so I picture it, but I'm pretty sure I'm right. Why, after all, would I load up my blog posts with so many secret rainbows if it weren't like this? And when it comes to my bosses continuing to not read my blog this intense reticence is a very helpful quality. One can not pick up on the chatter in an environment of disciplined radio silence.
Nevertheless I would like to offer a small piece of advice to my managers who do not read this.
If you should happen to come up to the fiction section on some random errand and stumble upon me, theoretically shelving, but actually at that moment intently writing on small post it notes, you should recognize a delicate situation. When I look up, startled out of deepest reverie, you should say, with all the sincerity you can muster "I absolutely trust that everything you do here is ultimately of benefit to the library. Never ever worry, and please do carry on."
And I will say "Thank you."
And then you can say, very quietly so as not to frighten anyone "If you are by any chance writing a blog, I would love more than anything to read it. I would never say anything about it, but would keep it in private pleasure and illumination to myself."
And I will say "I think maybe you already read my blog?"
And then you can say so quietly that I cannot hear you "Mmm." And then "Thank you." And then hurry off to a nice, calm, darkish room where you can check to make sure all the secret rainbows are okay.
Which they are.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Seven pleasures of Finnegans Wake
As you may know from my recent post I have stumbled upon the wordlery wonderlandabus known as Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce. I have no clear idea yet what really differentiates it from a long screed scribbled in pencil by a deranged homeless person, but to my surprise I am sort of reading it a little, if, that is, we can stretch the concept of what reading is to include occasionally looking a chunks of printed material in a confused and wondering manner. I think I might really even like it. And as a person who has now "read" parts of dozens upon dozens of sentences in Finnegans Wake I am eager to share with you:
1. My library copy, dating from the sixties, is aged, but strangely fresh, as if many people checked it out but no one has ever read it. Someone did self importantly make little pencil checks and brackets along side the text, but abandoned the project at page nine.
2. It curiously and simultaneously makes me feel like I'm in way over my head with genius and yet that I could easily write like this too. Like, if I were at a conference with the most advanced physicists in the world and had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, but also had this weird sense for it and felt it was natural to me. If I thus spoke flowingly about these super advanced physics all but about 200 people would think I was speaking very amazing advanced physics. The 200 people though who knew the deep truths about these advanced physics though would think I was being a complete fool, which would be fair enough.
3. I constantly muse on the idea of giving up any idea of audience on my blog, any sense of service to a public. Yes, I imagine continuing to write publicly, but entirely devoted to my own sphere of imagination, writing like I'm in an isolation tank, seeking visions evoked by pure sensory deprivation. Finneagans Wake seems to whisper to me "Come, join me in this endeavor." Well, except it says it more like "Unifluctuous, regard the follwarple fabulists, dallyland the lownely upon."
4. Forty-five minutes with Finnegans Wake will make carefully reading Faulkner seem like one is skimming an article in People Magazine.
5. I love bringing up that I am haplessly reading minute bits of Finnegans Wake to my co-workers. They surprise me by looking all mercurial and mysterious and knowing. They give me the strange feeling that they have all read this book, but found it a tad challenging, and so remember it in an aching bittersweetness.
6. I like that none of the pages are dogeared. This may sound like a repeat of virtue number one, but now that it has been established that all my co-workers have read and practically memorized Finnegans Wake I am through with the "No one reads Finnegans Wake" jokes and find all the pristineness to be a symptom of the mystical reverence each borrower of this book holds for it. I myself have smeared no homemade aioli on my copy, unlike all the other thousands of library books I check out.
7. If one reads a paragraph of Finnegans Wake aloud the comprehension rate goes from two percent to eight percent. If you read that paragraph 10 times the comprehension rate goes from eight percent to 37 percent. I have not ventured beyond this point, but the deep woods look like they go just about forever from there.
The Seven Virtues of Finnegans Wake
or
Sevenus virtuetides rollinguponus lolly and backus all the tithes fruiting forward
1. My library copy, dating from the sixties, is aged, but strangely fresh, as if many people checked it out but no one has ever read it. Someone did self importantly make little pencil checks and brackets along side the text, but abandoned the project at page nine.
2. It curiously and simultaneously makes me feel like I'm in way over my head with genius and yet that I could easily write like this too. Like, if I were at a conference with the most advanced physicists in the world and had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, but also had this weird sense for it and felt it was natural to me. If I thus spoke flowingly about these super advanced physics all but about 200 people would think I was speaking very amazing advanced physics. The 200 people though who knew the deep truths about these advanced physics though would think I was being a complete fool, which would be fair enough.
3. I constantly muse on the idea of giving up any idea of audience on my blog, any sense of service to a public. Yes, I imagine continuing to write publicly, but entirely devoted to my own sphere of imagination, writing like I'm in an isolation tank, seeking visions evoked by pure sensory deprivation. Finneagans Wake seems to whisper to me "Come, join me in this endeavor." Well, except it says it more like "Unifluctuous, regard the follwarple fabulists, dallyland the lownely upon."
4. Forty-five minutes with Finnegans Wake will make carefully reading Faulkner seem like one is skimming an article in People Magazine.
5. I love bringing up that I am haplessly reading minute bits of Finnegans Wake to my co-workers. They surprise me by looking all mercurial and mysterious and knowing. They give me the strange feeling that they have all read this book, but found it a tad challenging, and so remember it in an aching bittersweetness.
6. I like that none of the pages are dogeared. This may sound like a repeat of virtue number one, but now that it has been established that all my co-workers have read and practically memorized Finnegans Wake I am through with the "No one reads Finnegans Wake" jokes and find all the pristineness to be a symptom of the mystical reverence each borrower of this book holds for it. I myself have smeared no homemade aioli on my copy, unlike all the other thousands of library books I check out.
7. If one reads a paragraph of Finnegans Wake aloud the comprehension rate goes from two percent to eight percent. If you read that paragraph 10 times the comprehension rate goes from eight percent to 37 percent. I have not ventured beyond this point, but the deep woods look like they go just about forever from there.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The hottest book of the year
One of the pleasures of working at a library is that we are sometimes privy to information about, or sometimes even preview copies of, books that are about to sweep a reading nation off its feet. Having idiosyncratic tastes I am rarely so convinced of the merits of one of these books that I am willing to put it all on the line and tell you about it, but today, by grace of a librarian I am not even allowed to mention, I got to spend about ten minutes with an advance reading copy of a book that is so hot that the price on one of these "not for resale" copies, put up for sale illegally on eBay, was bid up to over $5,000 before lawyers and the like shut it down. Normally I would say "Yeah, yeah, yeah." I think I even did, but all that skepticism was completely forgotten after I spent two minutes with this stunning book. As eager as I was to read more of this book, I instead spent my last five minutes with the book transcribing the back cover. I present it to you here, just as it was:
Olivia Destiny loves her boring job as a billionaire pirate sorcerer who solves the complications of ancient and cute space-faring kittens. But being the heir and daughter of the Emperor of the Universe is a bait that a mysterious and painfully charming vampire from another dimension cannot resist, and she is hurtled into a reckoning with her notorious rock star past. Her love for a gorgeous, grey-eyed bloodsucking monster may be the only thing that can save the tiny, adorable, space kittens who taught her to love in the first place.
Written in the inimitable style of Finnegans Wake, but with more Yiddish, and with the pleasing pacing of Remembrance of Things Past, this is the first novel to receive an eight figure advance, which it was given on the basis of a rough sketch of the first paragraph.
"Yeasty, astonishing, Faulknerian, and then some."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"I thought we were coming towards the end of story, but I see now that one of us has just touched the beginning."
-Toni Morrison and Cormac McCarthy (said simultaneously, after which they looked at each other in surprise, and said "Weird!" also simultaneously, which caused them to laugh nervously).
"A dense and impossibly difficult easy summer read. Prepare to be up all night working your way through the first sentence. (Warning! Cuter than cute kittens alert!)"
-New York Times Book Review
Olivia Destiny loves her boring job as a billionaire pirate sorcerer who solves the complications of ancient and cute space-faring kittens. But being the heir and daughter of the Emperor of the Universe is a bait that a mysterious and painfully charming vampire from another dimension cannot resist, and she is hurtled into a reckoning with her notorious rock star past. Her love for a gorgeous, grey-eyed bloodsucking monster may be the only thing that can save the tiny, adorable, space kittens who taught her to love in the first place.
Written in the inimitable style of Finnegans Wake, but with more Yiddish, and with the pleasing pacing of Remembrance of Things Past, this is the first novel to receive an eight figure advance, which it was given on the basis of a rough sketch of the first paragraph.
- 114 city worldwide author tour with The White Stripes opening for each appearance.
- Ten million first printing copies already pre-sold out.
- Releases June 1 in English, with a new language in translation releasing each day following to mid July to a total of 46 languages.
"Yeasty, astonishing, Faulknerian, and then some."
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"I thought we were coming towards the end of story, but I see now that one of us has just touched the beginning."
-Toni Morrison and Cormac McCarthy (said simultaneously, after which they looked at each other in surprise, and said "Weird!" also simultaneously, which caused them to laugh nervously).
"A dense and impossibly difficult easy summer read. Prepare to be up all night working your way through the first sentence. (Warning! Cuter than cute kittens alert!)"
-New York Times Book Review
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
James Joyce
It was St. Patrick's day at the library, but I swear I wasn't thinking of that at all. I was upstairs shelving in fiction where it gets very heavy at the ends of the "J's" and the start of the "K's", literarily heavy, all James Joyce and Franz Kafka. As I do, compulsively, frequently, and appropriately, I pulled a book off the shelf to take a look. Something about Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce, called to me. I think it was the nice old edition we have.
Oh my. This book is splendid! Out amidst the stacks and stacks of books all screaming about their own wonderfulness, but all roughly enough the same with their stories and characters and normal English and all that, I finally open a lauded book and it is MADNESS. I cannot even begin to dare to formulate any real opinion about this thing by looking at the first page. Do you know how rare that is?
You may have read every word James Joyce ever wrote and this is nothing to you. Surely I have opened Ulysses several dozen times and thought how wonderful I might be if I would read such a thing. But today I am here without agenda. There is no way I will read Finnegans Wake. If I didn't decide to tell you about it I doubt I would have fully worked my way through a whole sentence. A whole sentence... here, let me share a random one with you from the first page of this book:
"Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface."
You can't see my Google spell check light up like a four alarm fire here, but it has. In fact, I think that sentence just broke my spell check, and more power to it. That spell check and I have never gotten along. And if you're thinking I only chose that sentence because it was especially fulsome, you are mistaken. I chose it because it did not contain the word
"bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk"
which is a word that I seriously did not want to have to type. The jokes on me though. I typed it anyway.
It wasn't so bad.
I took Finnegans Wake downstairs with me to admire on my dinner break, or, as it turns out, to blog about, but certainly not to read. But who needs to read it when I've already extracted such joy from it?
So, I wish to you, a late happy St Patrick's day from "out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy."
Well, I may read it just a little...
Oh my. This book is splendid! Out amidst the stacks and stacks of books all screaming about their own wonderfulness, but all roughly enough the same with their stories and characters and normal English and all that, I finally open a lauded book and it is MADNESS. I cannot even begin to dare to formulate any real opinion about this thing by looking at the first page. Do you know how rare that is?
You may have read every word James Joyce ever wrote and this is nothing to you. Surely I have opened Ulysses several dozen times and thought how wonderful I might be if I would read such a thing. But today I am here without agenda. There is no way I will read Finnegans Wake. If I didn't decide to tell you about it I doubt I would have fully worked my way through a whole sentence. A whole sentence... here, let me share a random one with you from the first page of this book:
"Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface."
You can't see my Google spell check light up like a four alarm fire here, but it has. In fact, I think that sentence just broke my spell check, and more power to it. That spell check and I have never gotten along. And if you're thinking I only chose that sentence because it was especially fulsome, you are mistaken. I chose it because it did not contain the word
"bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk"
which is a word that I seriously did not want to have to type. The jokes on me though. I typed it anyway.
It wasn't so bad.
I took Finnegans Wake downstairs with me to admire on my dinner break, or, as it turns out, to blog about, but certainly not to read. But who needs to read it when I've already extracted such joy from it?
So, I wish to you, a late happy St Patrick's day from "out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy."
Well, I may read it just a little...
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Seven in one blow
The library was busy,
The pace was not slow,
But never did I imagine,
I'd do seven in one blow.
I was working the desk,
With my co-worker Jo
It was the luck of the draw,
That I'd do seven in one blow.
Two parents approached me,
Their five children in tow.
They spoke fateful words,
That led to seven in one blow.
"We'd all of us like cards,
And believe us we know,
There are quite a lot of us,
Can you do seven in one blow?"
There are always ways out,
But you reap what you sow,
For the honor of clerkdom, "Yes,
I'll do seven in one blow."
We took up our pens, our forms,
All IDs did they show,
We typed and we wrote,
And did seven in one blow.
The family departed,
I started to crow,
"I've broken all records,
And done seven in one blow!"
My co-workers were startled,
And some nicely said "Whoa!"
For they'd done quite a few,
But never seven in one blow.
I had too my detractors,
But they had to say "No."
When I asked if they'd ever,
Done seven in one blow.
So if there are eight of you,
The clerk to whom you should go,
Is me, our record holder,
Who did seven in one blow.
My colleagues are fine with this,
It makes them quite glow,
For who in their right mind wants,
To do eight in one blow.
The pace was not slow,
But never did I imagine,
I'd do seven in one blow.
I was working the desk,
With my co-worker Jo
It was the luck of the draw,
That I'd do seven in one blow.
Two parents approached me,
Their five children in tow.
They spoke fateful words,
That led to seven in one blow.
"We'd all of us like cards,
And believe us we know,
There are quite a lot of us,
Can you do seven in one blow?"
There are always ways out,
But you reap what you sow,
For the honor of clerkdom, "Yes,
I'll do seven in one blow."
We took up our pens, our forms,
All IDs did they show,
We typed and we wrote,
And did seven in one blow.
The family departed,
I started to crow,
"I've broken all records,
And done seven in one blow!"
My co-workers were startled,
And some nicely said "Whoa!"
For they'd done quite a few,
But never seven in one blow.
I had too my detractors,
But they had to say "No."
When I asked if they'd ever,
Done seven in one blow.
So if there are eight of you,
The clerk to whom you should go,
Is me, our record holder,
Who did seven in one blow.
My colleagues are fine with this,
It makes them quite glow,
For who in their right mind wants,
To do eight in one blow.
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