Goin' back to Cali
Tomorrow I'm off on another trip, this time to the sunny California shore. Rather ironic, considering how often I've characterized California as the Cereal Bowl of the Nation (i.e., fruits, nuts, and flakes!). Perhaps I've finally become eccentric enough to fit in there, lounging in decadent lassitude on the Pacific shore, waiting for the Big One.
In any case, January is a good time to spend an expense-paid weekend outside of Michigan.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Guide to Pr*blematical Listserv Posters
If I ever compile a "Top Ten List of Signs You Spend Too Much Time Reading Library Weblogs And Listservs", one of them is going to be the following:
#: Seeing the name "Don S*kl*d", or the phrase "Guide to Pr*blematical Library Use", or any reference whatsoever to the B*st*n Public Library, makes you scream in fury and lunge for the delete key. Over... and over... and over... and over.... and over....
See why here. But only if you're very, very brave. Or bored. I've been known to be a cranky and obsessive library user from time to time, but this guy takes the cake. He has a couple of weblogs of his own which the interested can easily find by searching Google, but I ain't postin' no links to 'em. It's enough of a nuisance that his name shows up a dozen times a day in my e'mail inbox whenever he decides to harangue one of the listservs I'm on. (And, no, the e'mail service I'm using doesn't allow for mail blocking unless you pony up cash for the "Platinum" option. Grrr.)
If I ever compile a "Top Ten List of Signs You Spend Too Much Time Reading Library Weblogs And Listservs", one of them is going to be the following:
#: Seeing the name "Don S*kl*d", or the phrase "Guide to Pr*blematical Library Use", or any reference whatsoever to the B*st*n Public Library, makes you scream in fury and lunge for the delete key. Over... and over... and over... and over.... and over....
See why here. But only if you're very, very brave. Or bored. I've been known to be a cranky and obsessive library user from time to time, but this guy takes the cake. He has a couple of weblogs of his own which the interested can easily find by searching Google, but I ain't postin' no links to 'em. It's enough of a nuisance that his name shows up a dozen times a day in my e'mail inbox whenever he decides to harangue one of the listservs I'm on. (And, no, the e'mail service I'm using doesn't allow for mail blocking unless you pony up cash for the "Platinum" option. Grrr.)
This isn't a weblog, it's a bicycle club!
So says the occasionally-sensible Walt Crawford. Whee! Let's all ride our bikes and have fun!
So says the occasionally-sensible Walt Crawford. Whee! Let's all ride our bikes and have fun!
Monday, January 19, 2004
More dangerous reading
We've all probably heard about the FBI's recent warnings about terrorists using almanacs as Tools of Terror. But that's not all they're looking for....
Robert Mueller III, director of the FBI, explains in the current issue of American Libraries that "I am personally committed to fighting the war on terrorism without violating the principles of civil liberty and privacy that make this country great...." He says also that "We must recognize, however, that libraries and their services occasionally attract individuals involved in criminal conduct, including terrorism and espionage." Ted Kaczynski, the good ol' Unabomber, is trotted out as an example:
"Included within the [Unabomber's] manifesto were references to an obscure book, The Ancient Engineers, by L. Sprague De Camp. A librarian in Montana near Kaczynski's home told FBI agents that Kaczynski had ordered 'tons of stuff' on L. Sprague de Camp. Kaczynski was subsequently arrested and convicted for his role in a string of bombings."
Huh? Am I missing something, or are there a few gaps in his logic here?
It's a little odd to characterize de Camp's The Ancient Engineers as "obscure". De Camp was an extremely prolific writer of science fiction, fantasy, and nonfiction, and the winner of several science fiction and fantasy award, most notably the Hugo Award in 1997. At one time or another, I've seen copies of that particular book on the bargain-books rack of just about every Barnes & Noble store I've been to, as well as in numerous used-bookstores. OCLC WorldCat reports that 1028 libraries own the 1963 original edition, with hundreds more owning copies of subsequent editions that came out in 1966, 1970, 1974, 1976, 1977, 1986, and 1990. Does the FBI really think that reading, owning, or requesting a copy of this book, or 'tons of stuff' about its author, is a "terrorist" characteristic? If so, we've got an awful lot of terrorists out there. Enough to make de Camp a bestselling author in his heyday, and enough to vote a Hugo Award to him in 1997. If this is the case, considering that I like to read about old technology, read science fiction, and lived in the same city as de Camp, I have no idea how I managed to avoid becoming a Terrorist.
I note that Mr. Mueller is rather vague about just what connection there is between Kaczynski's reading of de Camp, FBI's snooping into his library records, and his "subsequent" arrest. Does he mean to say that the references to de Camp's book in the Unabomber's manuscript, and some kind of mass trawling through library records for "people who read L. Sprague de Camp", were the critical evidence that allowed the FBI to identify and arrest Kaczynski?
My recollection of the events is that the FBI and other police agencies actually identified and arrested Kaczynski only after his brother recognized his writing style in the published manifesto and turned him in. (See Wikipedia's entry on Kaczynski.) If the FBI inquired into Kaczynski's library records after that point, it was (1) after the case had effectively been broken, and (2) with critical evidence identifying a suspect already in hand -- evidence that evidently met the existing requirements for library disclosure, pre-"PATRIOT" ACT.
Does Mr. Mueller intend to say that if the FBI had had "PATRIOT"-style powers of inquisition at that time, they would have conducted a massive, nationwide fishing expedition through library and bookstore records for the names of everybody who had read best-selling authors like de Camp, Joseph Conrad, Eric Hoffer and other authors cited by the Unabomber? And then somehow magically identified the "right" one from that massive list? What of all those who read de Camp, Hoffer, et al in pure, unblemished innocence? 'Fraid yours truly is "guilty" of reading all three. Although I may be more bookish than most of the population, it seems likely that there are thousands of others who fit the same definition.
In any event, this example is, if anything, an example of why the so-called "Patriot" Act was unneeded. Evidently the FBI got the necessary information about Kaczynski under the pre-existing system. The claim that this supports the "need" for at-will and unsupervised surveillance of all American citizens' reading and researching habits is unjustified.
We've all probably heard about the FBI's recent warnings about terrorists using almanacs as Tools of Terror. But that's not all they're looking for....
Robert Mueller III, director of the FBI, explains in the current issue of American Libraries that "I am personally committed to fighting the war on terrorism without violating the principles of civil liberty and privacy that make this country great...." He says also that "We must recognize, however, that libraries and their services occasionally attract individuals involved in criminal conduct, including terrorism and espionage." Ted Kaczynski, the good ol' Unabomber, is trotted out as an example:
"Included within the [Unabomber's] manifesto were references to an obscure book, The Ancient Engineers, by L. Sprague De Camp. A librarian in Montana near Kaczynski's home told FBI agents that Kaczynski had ordered 'tons of stuff' on L. Sprague de Camp. Kaczynski was subsequently arrested and convicted for his role in a string of bombings."
Huh? Am I missing something, or are there a few gaps in his logic here?
It's a little odd to characterize de Camp's The Ancient Engineers as "obscure". De Camp was an extremely prolific writer of science fiction, fantasy, and nonfiction, and the winner of several science fiction and fantasy award, most notably the Hugo Award in 1997. At one time or another, I've seen copies of that particular book on the bargain-books rack of just about every Barnes & Noble store I've been to, as well as in numerous used-bookstores. OCLC WorldCat reports that 1028 libraries own the 1963 original edition, with hundreds more owning copies of subsequent editions that came out in 1966, 1970, 1974, 1976, 1977, 1986, and 1990. Does the FBI really think that reading, owning, or requesting a copy of this book, or 'tons of stuff' about its author, is a "terrorist" characteristic? If so, we've got an awful lot of terrorists out there. Enough to make de Camp a bestselling author in his heyday, and enough to vote a Hugo Award to him in 1997. If this is the case, considering that I like to read about old technology, read science fiction, and lived in the same city as de Camp, I have no idea how I managed to avoid becoming a Terrorist.
I note that Mr. Mueller is rather vague about just what connection there is between Kaczynski's reading of de Camp, FBI's snooping into his library records, and his "subsequent" arrest. Does he mean to say that the references to de Camp's book in the Unabomber's manuscript, and some kind of mass trawling through library records for "people who read L. Sprague de Camp", were the critical evidence that allowed the FBI to identify and arrest Kaczynski?
My recollection of the events is that the FBI and other police agencies actually identified and arrested Kaczynski only after his brother recognized his writing style in the published manifesto and turned him in. (See Wikipedia's entry on Kaczynski.) If the FBI inquired into Kaczynski's library records after that point, it was (1) after the case had effectively been broken, and (2) with critical evidence identifying a suspect already in hand -- evidence that evidently met the existing requirements for library disclosure, pre-"PATRIOT" ACT.
Does Mr. Mueller intend to say that if the FBI had had "PATRIOT"-style powers of inquisition at that time, they would have conducted a massive, nationwide fishing expedition through library and bookstore records for the names of everybody who had read best-selling authors like de Camp, Joseph Conrad, Eric Hoffer and other authors cited by the Unabomber? And then somehow magically identified the "right" one from that massive list? What of all those who read de Camp, Hoffer, et al in pure, unblemished innocence? 'Fraid yours truly is "guilty" of reading all three. Although I may be more bookish than most of the population, it seems likely that there are thousands of others who fit the same definition.
In any event, this example is, if anything, an example of why the so-called "Patriot" Act was unneeded. Evidently the FBI got the necessary information about Kaczynski under the pre-existing system. The claim that this supports the "need" for at-will and unsupervised surveillance of all American citizens' reading and researching habits is unjustified.
Recent Reads:
Meals by Fred Harvey : a phenomenon of the American West, by James David Henderson
Since I have a few relatives with the same surname, who lived in the same general area at the same general time that Mr. Harvey was starting his chain of restaurants, I had idly wondered whether there might be a family connection to the man who history credits with bringing both edible food and marriagable single women (the famous Harvey Girl waitresses) to the Western frontier. Unfortunately, what biographical information there was in this short book pretty well nixed that idea. It was an interesting read anyway; if I ever decide to build a western-themed model railroad module, a Harvey House restaurant would be an interesting item to include. (If you look closely at this photo, the Slaton Harvey House appears to have received coal by railcar, and according to the book, Harvey frequently had refrigerator cars of produce and meat routed to his restaurants, adding some local freight switching operations to the mandatory passenger-train stops.)
Meals by Fred Harvey : a phenomenon of the American West, by James David Henderson
Since I have a few relatives with the same surname, who lived in the same general area at the same general time that Mr. Harvey was starting his chain of restaurants, I had idly wondered whether there might be a family connection to the man who history credits with bringing both edible food and marriagable single women (the famous Harvey Girl waitresses) to the Western frontier. Unfortunately, what biographical information there was in this short book pretty well nixed that idea. It was an interesting read anyway; if I ever decide to build a western-themed model railroad module, a Harvey House restaurant would be an interesting item to include. (If you look closely at this photo, the Slaton Harvey House appears to have received coal by railcar, and according to the book, Harvey frequently had refrigerator cars of produce and meat routed to his restaurants, adding some local freight switching operations to the mandatory passenger-train stops.)
Insert obligatory pun here
From the Jan. 2004 issue of Locus, p. 13:
Follow the Pulp Paper Road : Two and a half million return copies of old Mills and Boon romance novels, or 92,000 books per mile, were used to produce a new 16-mile stretch of the M6 toll road in Birmingham UK. "Unsold copies of the books were shredded into a paste and added to a mixture of asphalt and Tamac," which "helps to bind the asphalt and the Tarmac, preventing the surface from splitting apart after heavy use." Project manager Richard Beal said, "There is an old saying that the road to true love doesn't run smoothly but thanks to thousands of Mills and Boon romance novels we hope that the M6 toll will."
From the Jan. 2004 issue of Locus, p. 13:
Follow the Pulp Paper Road : Two and a half million return copies of old Mills and Boon romance novels, or 92,000 books per mile, were used to produce a new 16-mile stretch of the M6 toll road in Birmingham UK. "Unsold copies of the books were shredded into a paste and added to a mixture of asphalt and Tamac," which "helps to bind the asphalt and the Tarmac, preventing the surface from splitting apart after heavy use." Project manager Richard Beal said, "There is an old saying that the road to true love doesn't run smoothly but thanks to thousands of Mills and Boon romance novels we hope that the M6 toll will."
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Pulp fiction reference tools
Since I brought up pulp fiction in the previous post, I'll be a dutiful librarian and mention a few online reference sources that should gladden the heart of pulp readers everywhere.
According to a posting on the Stumpers-L listserv, Gordon Van Gelder, the editor of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction has recently announced a comprehensive online index covering stories and other items published in F&SF from 1949 to 1999. This includes the first appearances of quite a few stories by well-known authors like Robert Heinlein, Alfred Bester, et al. Now, if only more libraries had the indexed volumes on the shelves for easy access....
The FictionMags Index provides spotty but useful coverage of fiction published in many of the classic pulps such as Railroad Stories and The Shadow, as well as publications both more respectable (The Saturday Evening Post) and considerably less (Spicy Stories , Playboy, and the intriguingly titled Naughty Bits)
And of course there are always the Locus indexes.
Have fun. Drive your local interlibrary loan department crazy. Don't tell 'em I sent you.
Since I brought up pulp fiction in the previous post, I'll be a dutiful librarian and mention a few online reference sources that should gladden the heart of pulp readers everywhere.
According to a posting on the Stumpers-L listserv, Gordon Van Gelder, the editor of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction has recently announced a comprehensive online index covering stories and other items published in F&SF from 1949 to 1999. This includes the first appearances of quite a few stories by well-known authors like Robert Heinlein, Alfred Bester, et al. Now, if only more libraries had the indexed volumes on the shelves for easy access....
The FictionMags Index provides spotty but useful coverage of fiction published in many of the classic pulps such as Railroad Stories and The Shadow, as well as publications both more respectable (The Saturday Evening Post) and considerably less (Spicy Stories , Playboy, and the intriguingly titled Naughty Bits)
And of course there are always the Locus indexes.
Have fun. Drive your local interlibrary loan department crazy. Don't tell 'em I sent you.
Isn't it Romantic?
Jen Wolf has created a fun webpage honoring the sub-sub-subgenre of Library Career Romance novels, a subset of the Career Girl novel of the 1950's, itself a subset of Women's Novels, which is in turn a subset of Pulp Fiction in my own peculiar taxonomy. Who knew that working in libraries was such a whirl of glamour and romance?
Be sure to check out the cover images and excerpts supplied. For example:
"Sue sighed. She was still disappointed that she hadn’t gotten the job at the Main Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. She had been so sure she would get it. Her pride still ached when she thought of the homeliest girl in the class enjoying that coveted position, even though Sue knew that grades, not looks, were the deciding factor. Sue wasn’t looking forward at all to hacking around in the frozen north. But at least it was a job, a temporary job. Sue bit her lip. Now that it was too late, she wished that she’d studied harder. She knew she could have been near the top of her class in library school if only she’d tried. Then she could have had her choice of jobs. [from Books and Beaux]
Or consider this moment of epiphany from Anne Fuller, Librarian:
The microfilm reader fascinated Anne. It had been so helpful in the libraries where she had worked the last two summers. But she had never before had the responsibility of a machine, as she did now. She arrived early on her second day and went to the metal cabinet beside the machine to study the films which the library had collected. It still seemed a miracle to her that the contents of a whole book, or a big issue of a newspaper, could be recorded on a small roll of film less than two inches wide. [p. 67]
Unfortunately, not a single one of these worthy tomes holds out a scintilla of hope for men in the library profession to Find True Love. Presumably truly Manly Men of the 1950's were expected to be off fighting the Cold War, building Chevys, and generally being Manly while demure Anne gawked at the miraculous microfilm machine. (Don't tell her about the Internet; she'll fall down in a dead faint!)
(Link ripped from Jessamyn West, the sine-qua-non of library bloggers.)
Jen Wolf has created a fun webpage honoring the sub-sub-subgenre of Library Career Romance novels, a subset of the Career Girl novel of the 1950's, itself a subset of Women's Novels, which is in turn a subset of Pulp Fiction in my own peculiar taxonomy. Who knew that working in libraries was such a whirl of glamour and romance?
Be sure to check out the cover images and excerpts supplied. For example:
"Sue sighed. She was still disappointed that she hadn’t gotten the job at the Main Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. She had been so sure she would get it. Her pride still ached when she thought of the homeliest girl in the class enjoying that coveted position, even though Sue knew that grades, not looks, were the deciding factor. Sue wasn’t looking forward at all to hacking around in the frozen north. But at least it was a job, a temporary job. Sue bit her lip. Now that it was too late, she wished that she’d studied harder. She knew she could have been near the top of her class in library school if only she’d tried. Then she could have had her choice of jobs. [from Books and Beaux]
Or consider this moment of epiphany from Anne Fuller, Librarian:
The microfilm reader fascinated Anne. It had been so helpful in the libraries where she had worked the last two summers. But she had never before had the responsibility of a machine, as she did now. She arrived early on her second day and went to the metal cabinet beside the machine to study the films which the library had collected. It still seemed a miracle to her that the contents of a whole book, or a big issue of a newspaper, could be recorded on a small roll of film less than two inches wide. [p. 67]
Unfortunately, not a single one of these worthy tomes holds out a scintilla of hope for men in the library profession to Find True Love. Presumably truly Manly Men of the 1950's were expected to be off fighting the Cold War, building Chevys, and generally being Manly while demure Anne gawked at the miraculous microfilm machine. (Don't tell her about the Internet; she'll fall down in a dead faint!)
(Link ripped from Jessamyn West, the sine-qua-non of library bloggers.)
Now playing...
Del and the Boys (Del McCoury Band, 2000)
It don't get much more country than this. I have sometimes winced at the so-called "high lonesome" sound of bluegrass music, and at the cliched images of "hillbillies" that too often accompany it in places like "Dollywood" or "Silver Dollar City". But against all expectations, I enjoyed this album immensely, and it reminded me that bluegrass has a far greater and deeper heritage than the cornball cliches of "Hee-Haw", one that I need to explore.
True, McCoury's voice at full blast has some of the sonic qualities of a high-speed bandsaw cutting through sheet metal, but so help me, it works on these songs. Although there's one instrumental number on the album, and Del's band (including his two sons) plays blazing licks throughout, most of the songs, like the traditional folk ballads and gospel songs that gave birth to the bluegrass genre, depend on the lyrics as much as the music for their impact. They're songs that tell stories drawn from the weird and phantasmagorical world of backwoods American folklore, where angels or devils can lurk behind the faces of strangers on trains or the temptations of the whiskey bottle, and McCoury's their ideal storyteller. As sung by McCoury, a song like "1952 Vincent Black Lightning", a rather tawdry tale of an ill-fated biker and his red-haired girlfriend, becomes high drama despite itself. Even slightly-over-the-top bits like the protagonist's fashion comments ("Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme!") and the dying words of a man who sees "angels on aerials / in leather and chrome / comin' down from Heaven / to carry me home" work amazingly well when belted out in McCoury's urgent backcountry twang.
Elsewhere in the album, "All Aboard"manages to bring one of the oldest tropes in the gospel-songwriters' book to vivid, nerve-jangling life, and "Pharisee in Recovery" manages to be both humorously self-deprecating and Biblically sound. The latter song, if I had my way, would be required listening for all church officials of all denominations.
Del and the Boys (Del McCoury Band, 2000)
It don't get much more country than this. I have sometimes winced at the so-called "high lonesome" sound of bluegrass music, and at the cliched images of "hillbillies" that too often accompany it in places like "Dollywood" or "Silver Dollar City". But against all expectations, I enjoyed this album immensely, and it reminded me that bluegrass has a far greater and deeper heritage than the cornball cliches of "Hee-Haw", one that I need to explore.
True, McCoury's voice at full blast has some of the sonic qualities of a high-speed bandsaw cutting through sheet metal, but so help me, it works on these songs. Although there's one instrumental number on the album, and Del's band (including his two sons) plays blazing licks throughout, most of the songs, like the traditional folk ballads and gospel songs that gave birth to the bluegrass genre, depend on the lyrics as much as the music for their impact. They're songs that tell stories drawn from the weird and phantasmagorical world of backwoods American folklore, where angels or devils can lurk behind the faces of strangers on trains or the temptations of the whiskey bottle, and McCoury's their ideal storyteller. As sung by McCoury, a song like "1952 Vincent Black Lightning", a rather tawdry tale of an ill-fated biker and his red-haired girlfriend, becomes high drama despite itself. Even slightly-over-the-top bits like the protagonist's fashion comments ("Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme!") and the dying words of a man who sees "angels on aerials / in leather and chrome / comin' down from Heaven / to carry me home" work amazingly well when belted out in McCoury's urgent backcountry twang.
Elsewhere in the album, "All Aboard"manages to bring one of the oldest tropes in the gospel-songwriters' book to vivid, nerve-jangling life, and "Pharisee in Recovery" manages to be both humorously self-deprecating and Biblically sound. The latter song, if I had my way, would be required listening for all church officials of all denominations.
Total Information Hypocrisy
From US News & World Report, January 12, 2004, p 6.
Shushing Homeland
Security is one thing, but how about this from the Department of Homeland Security? The agency has instructed employees to ignore, in some cases, court orders to disclose information. The agency says that an employee who gets a court order should seek a delay. And if he or she is unsuccessful and the court persists, the employee "shall respectfully decline to comply with the demand."
"Rule of Law"? Yeah, right. Thanks to the LU List.
From US News & World Report, January 12, 2004, p 6.
Shushing Homeland
Security is one thing, but how about this from the Department of Homeland Security? The agency has instructed employees to ignore, in some cases, court orders to disclose information. The agency says that an employee who gets a court order should seek a delay. And if he or she is unsuccessful and the court persists, the employee "shall respectfully decline to comply with the demand."
"Rule of Law"? Yeah, right. Thanks to the LU List.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Thunder, Thunder over Bunny Road!
CNN reports that a pair of Belgian desperadoes were recently captured by police despite having a car tricked out with enough gadgetry to satisfy James Bond or Lucas Doolin.
[The car was] reinforced with metal plates to stop bullets. [It} was also equipped with an automated box ready to spring tire traps to slow pursuers. The poachers had fitted a halogen lamp on the outside to blind their prey and shielded the car's number plates with lead sheeting to avoid identification. There was also a device to eject two old bicycles fixed on the back of the car on to the road as an obstacle to any vehicle in hot pursuit....
And the valuable, illicit cargo these daring highwaymen were smuggling? Bootleg liquor? Cocaine? Stolen artwork? Pirated DVD's? Nope. Rabbits.
All together now....
(CHORUS)
And there was (hippity-hop, hippity-hop!) over Thunder Road
(Hippity-hop!) was their engine, and (Hippity-hop!) was their load....
(Real lyrics here.)
With that kind of imagination and mechanical ability, couldn't these guys find anything more, uh, interesting to smuggle?
CNN reports that a pair of Belgian desperadoes were recently captured by police despite having a car tricked out with enough gadgetry to satisfy James Bond or Lucas Doolin.
[The car was] reinforced with metal plates to stop bullets. [It} was also equipped with an automated box ready to spring tire traps to slow pursuers. The poachers had fitted a halogen lamp on the outside to blind their prey and shielded the car's number plates with lead sheeting to avoid identification. There was also a device to eject two old bicycles fixed on the back of the car on to the road as an obstacle to any vehicle in hot pursuit....
And the valuable, illicit cargo these daring highwaymen were smuggling? Bootleg liquor? Cocaine? Stolen artwork? Pirated DVD's? Nope. Rabbits.
All together now....
(CHORUS)
And there was (hippity-hop, hippity-hop!) over Thunder Road
(Hippity-hop!) was their engine, and (Hippity-hop!) was their load....
(Real lyrics here.)
With that kind of imagination and mechanical ability, couldn't these guys find anything more, uh, interesting to smuggle?
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Guess I'm not the only one with a dirty mind
The city's most prominent and best-known landmark has been officially acknowledged as the World's Most Phallic Building.
Original contest and story from Cabinet magazine available here; text of historical marker plaque here.
The city's most prominent and best-known landmark has been officially acknowledged as the World's Most Phallic Building.
Original contest and story from Cabinet magazine available here; text of historical marker plaque here.
Well, I'm back... again
I have been ever-so-gently reminded by at least two different persons that (1) I have failed to "write up" that sumptuous event-of-the-season, the Wedding of the Great Yam, and (2) contrary to appearances, there actually are people who try to read this blog occasionally, and they're mightily aggravated when lazy ol' me fails to throw them fresh meat... er, write new posts.
Really. I'm touched. You shouldn't have. That's so sweet.
Perhaps you will be more understanding of my recent distraction if I supply a chronology of the past month in the Life O' Felix. Batten down the hatches; it involves over 8000 miles of travel and visits to four different states, including the homes of seven different sets of relatives, three old college freinds, and three job interviews... and even so, I missed contacting one person I particularly wanted to see and one entire set of former co-workers. It's got beauty and beasts, pleasure and pain, a wonderful new sister-in-law (Hi, S.) and a horrible troll of a great-aunt. Not to mention an exploding power-steering pump, failing brakes, and an ailing cat spurting bloody urine. Some fun, eh?
Dec. 13 was the happy date of the Wedding of the Great Yam to his lovely bride S. in Austin, Texas, an event at which I was privileged to serve as groomsman. The wedding was held at night in a rural location north of Austin, lit by lanterns and candles, giving it a sort of mysterious pagan ambience. The bride and her bridesmaids approached the groom's party along a path of lights that wound down a small hillside opposite the wedding location, crossing a wooden bridge.
Fortunately, the sky didn't pour down rain on this festive and solemn occasion. However, it was cold, as the temperature began in the 40s (Fahrenheit) and proceeded to drop into the thirties after the ceremony. The bonfire was well attended, although my brother's threats to have a bonfire weenie-roast instead of a traditional reception dinner seem to have been vetoed by a Higher Power. There were those who wondered if the bride were going to start turning blue in her strapless gown; however, she reports feeling no pain all evening. There are of course traditional reasons for brides to be oblivious to trivial things like weather on wedding days, but in this case a judicious application of heat-pads seems to have aided matters. Nonetheless she was heard to murmur something about warmth when the happy twosome embraced after the vows.
While staying in Austin, I visited with a former college roommate whose love of ghost and mystery stories, nautical adventure, secret passages, and good food and liquor makes every visit an adventure, even if his version of ferroequinology differs from my own.
It turned out also that his next-door neighbor, a very attractive young woman, is studying the art of Swedish massage, and as part of her course of study, needs to do a certain number of practice massages. I allowed myself to be persuaded to volunteer. It's a rough job but someone's gotta do it. It is no doubt due to the relaxing influence of her gentle ministrations that I managed to refrain from actually attempting to track down and kill the blithering sadistic idiots who designed Austin's streets and highways.
Dec. 15-19 After the wedding, it was back to Michigan to work in the library for the final week of the semester.
Dec. 20: Back to Texas, this time north Dallas, for Christmas with the immediate family. Frantic last-minute shopping for gifts for forgotten distant relatives who decided at the last minute to come to the Christmas doin's. Swear eternal vengeance against the blithering yuppie idiots in their bling-bling BMW's and blundering chrome-armored SUV's that make driving in North Dallas so very .... interesting. Over next few days, spend too much time and too much money at model train stores, bookstores, etc. Buy more for myself than for others. (At least I know what I want....)
Dec. 22. In between pre-Christmas foolishness, have telephone interview with public library in southwestern Michigan. They don't sound impressed.
Dec. 24. Attend Christmas Eve services at local First Baptist Church. Sadly, rumor has it that this was the last year for the church's signature holiday blowout, the Living Christmas Tree. Somehow I fail to be saddened at the discontinuance of something which always looked to me as if savage headhunters had decorated the tree with trophies of unfortunate missionaries. Nor will I miss the spinning disco-balls used to create "swirling snow" effects.
Thankfully, however, this year's iteration of the Living Christmas Tree has already joined the Ghosts of Christmas Past, and the Christmas Eve candlelight service of prayer and traditional carols is modest, tasteful, and restrained, especially by comparison with the spectacle put on by the archrival crosstown megachurch . I don't think I could have restrained myself from laughing at the twelve-foot-long organdy "angels" swooping over the congregation on wires and metal tracks. "Duck! Incoming!!!"
Dec. 25. Off to the races on Christmas Day for the mad highway dash through Oklahoma (stopping off to visit a newly-acquired set of relatives, the grandparents of my brother's wife) and Arkansas up to Missouri to spend the next few days visiting the aunties and uncles and cousins and granddad and other relatives beyond my meagre powers of genealogical description. (S.'s grandmother is an antiques dealer. Mother is a great fan of cutesy antiques. They should get along famously....)
Notable moment: While visiting Great-Aunt H., she delivers herself of the considered opinion that "You could get married too, if you'd just look like a decent person."
Fortunately, Walgreens takes gift returns, and the gift originally intended for Great-Aunt H. paid for some much-needed office supplies. This is not the first time she's chosen to insult someone at Christmas. Note to self: spiteful old bat can rot in nursing home in future.
Dec. 28. On the way back to Texas, stop off in Springfield to look over the offerings of the various model railroad shops. Springfield, of course, is the center of the Universe for all things Frisco....
Several hours and many dollars later, leave Springfield behind. Make very late arrival in north Dallas. Sleep most of next day.
Dec. 30. Make pilgrimage to that Mecca of southwestern railroad history, the DeGolyer Library. Revel in access to complete microfilmed collection of all Sanborn maps in Library of Congress! Photocopy madly until closing! Speak briefly with head of library who informs me that although they'd like to hire a curator for their railroad materials, well, with budgets being what they are... yadda, yadda, yadda....
Dec. 31. Trek over to Fort Worth to visit with the illustrious Pablo, resulting in random outsputterings of verbiage as seen in prior posts. Watch taped episodes of Firefly. Conclude that the television executives who cancelled the series before completing a single season are pinheads. What else is new.
Jan. 1. During return from Fort Worth, parents' borrowed truck begins making horrible grinding noise as brake pads wear out. Conclude there's nothing I can do about it at 2 a.m. on New Year's Day. Sleep. Make unsuccessful efforts to contact other acquaintances and former co-workers in north Dallas later in the day. Go to see Return of the King with parents. Spend a substantial amount of time explaining background of movie. Am slightly flattered when mother says that Viggo Mortensen looks like me, but recognize that she's biased.
Jan. 2. Truck is in shop, leaving me without transportation, until late afternoon. Make more unsuccessful efforts to contact local acquaintances. Raid local bookstores. Rummage through storage compartment containing books and other property I haven't had access to for two years. Realize that a substantial portion of it is junk. Realize also that there is no way in h*ll that I'm going to be able to find anything specific in that jumble of boxes. (Think of the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark; then compress all the contents of the scene into one 10x10 storage compartment.)
Jan. 3. Parents' other car needs repair work, too, leading to entertaining shuffle between various people and their transportation needs as I try to get various bulky gifts and purchases mailed to myself before the post offices close at noon. Pablo and Carlos pick me up in afternoon to go see fancy foreign flick at Inwood Theater. (Actually, the sign says I WO D nowadays, but who's counting letters?) Have pleasant lamb-kebob dinner at nearby Turkish restaurant. Chat about wine, women and song. Like Walker Percy's compatriots in his famous essay on Bourbon, wonder "Where Are The Women?" Conclude that we're all doomed.
Jan. 4. Fly back to Michigan to return to salt mines... er, library.
Jan. 5. Telephone interview with Catholic college in Houston, Texas in morning. Will they take me seriously? Don't count on it. At lunchtime, race to credit union to deposit paycheck. Truck power steering pump fails in middle of sharp turn, spraying steering fluid liberally around engine compartment. Steering 1/2-ton, 4wd truck suddenly becomes heavy manual labor. Briefly consider building up muscles by not fixing power steering. After running over a couple of curbs and veering into the wrong lane twice, decide that this is not a good idea.
Realize that paycheck has disappeared. Not metaphorically, but literally. Find out later in afternoon that University payroll won't replace paycheck for at least a week.
Jan. 7. Pick up truck from repair shop just in time to head to airport for interview trip to university in Georgia. Repair shop, to their credit, has actually fixed the problem at reasonable price and more-or-less on time. Arrive in Georgia at 10:30 p.m. and ride mass-transit train to downtown hotel. Risk of being mugged is minimized by short distance from subway terminal to designated hotel, which turns out to be reasonably attractive and comfortable, but lacking internet service. This is inconvenient since I still need to finalize presentation for job interview. Night clerk is ignorant and flippant about lack of knowledge of internet. Go to sleep.
Jan. 8. Up early to finish preparing presentation. Interview all day. Will spare you the details. Finish day by looking over Underground Atlanta, especially the impressive O-scale display layout representing various historically significant Atlanta buildings. No Tara plantation or Burning of Atlanta special effects, though. Return to Michigan on redeye flight.
Jan. 9. Returning to work at the library, find out that colleague who was supposed to cover my virtual-reference shift on the 8th failed to do so. Work most of the day at the reference desk, making up for missed hours of coverage.
Jan. 10 Do nothing all day. Nothing, blessed nothing. Note mysterious reddish spatter in closet. Did I drop something?
Jan. 11. Wake up to sight of cat peeing bloody urine in closet. Cat proceeds to do this repeatedly, every fifteen minutes, in every room of the apartment, with anxious look on face. Locate "emergency" weekend animal clinic. Several hours and many dollars later, begin dosing cat with antibiotics in hope that this is mere bladder infection. Vet also recommends eye ointment for watery right eye. (Cat's previous problem with left eye was surgically corrected this summer, so obviously he had to develop another problem or two.)
Jan. 12. Cat seems to be better; at least he's not spurting bloody pee every fifteen minutes. Begin morning by entering into negotiations with Cat over whether or not he will sit still for eye ointment. Negotiations take a hostile turn very quickly. Fortunately he's less hostile about taking his oral medicine. That may have something to do with the fact that I'm mixing it with canned catfood. (Silly cat!)
And so back to work again.
I have been ever-so-gently reminded by at least two different persons that (1) I have failed to "write up" that sumptuous event-of-the-season, the Wedding of the Great Yam, and (2) contrary to appearances, there actually are people who try to read this blog occasionally, and they're mightily aggravated when lazy ol' me fails to throw them fresh meat... er, write new posts.
Really. I'm touched. You shouldn't have. That's so sweet.
Perhaps you will be more understanding of my recent distraction if I supply a chronology of the past month in the Life O' Felix. Batten down the hatches; it involves over 8000 miles of travel and visits to four different states, including the homes of seven different sets of relatives, three old college freinds, and three job interviews... and even so, I missed contacting one person I particularly wanted to see and one entire set of former co-workers. It's got beauty and beasts, pleasure and pain, a wonderful new sister-in-law (Hi, S.) and a horrible troll of a great-aunt. Not to mention an exploding power-steering pump, failing brakes, and an ailing cat spurting bloody urine. Some fun, eh?
Dec. 13 was the happy date of the Wedding of the Great Yam to his lovely bride S. in Austin, Texas, an event at which I was privileged to serve as groomsman. The wedding was held at night in a rural location north of Austin, lit by lanterns and candles, giving it a sort of mysterious pagan ambience. The bride and her bridesmaids approached the groom's party along a path of lights that wound down a small hillside opposite the wedding location, crossing a wooden bridge.
Fortunately, the sky didn't pour down rain on this festive and solemn occasion. However, it was cold, as the temperature began in the 40s (Fahrenheit) and proceeded to drop into the thirties after the ceremony. The bonfire was well attended, although my brother's threats to have a bonfire weenie-roast instead of a traditional reception dinner seem to have been vetoed by a Higher Power. There were those who wondered if the bride were going to start turning blue in her strapless gown; however, she reports feeling no pain all evening. There are of course traditional reasons for brides to be oblivious to trivial things like weather on wedding days, but in this case a judicious application of heat-pads seems to have aided matters. Nonetheless she was heard to murmur something about warmth when the happy twosome embraced after the vows.
While staying in Austin, I visited with a former college roommate whose love of ghost and mystery stories, nautical adventure, secret passages, and good food and liquor makes every visit an adventure, even if his version of ferroequinology differs from my own.
It turned out also that his next-door neighbor, a very attractive young woman, is studying the art of Swedish massage, and as part of her course of study, needs to do a certain number of practice massages. I allowed myself to be persuaded to volunteer. It's a rough job but someone's gotta do it. It is no doubt due to the relaxing influence of her gentle ministrations that I managed to refrain from actually attempting to track down and kill the blithering sadistic idiots who designed Austin's streets and highways.
Dec. 15-19 After the wedding, it was back to Michigan to work in the library for the final week of the semester.
Dec. 20: Back to Texas, this time north Dallas, for Christmas with the immediate family. Frantic last-minute shopping for gifts for forgotten distant relatives who decided at the last minute to come to the Christmas doin's. Swear eternal vengeance against the blithering yuppie idiots in their bling-bling BMW's and blundering chrome-armored SUV's that make driving in North Dallas so very .... interesting. Over next few days, spend too much time and too much money at model train stores, bookstores, etc. Buy more for myself than for others. (At least I know what I want....)
Dec. 22. In between pre-Christmas foolishness, have telephone interview with public library in southwestern Michigan. They don't sound impressed.
Dec. 24. Attend Christmas Eve services at local First Baptist Church. Sadly, rumor has it that this was the last year for the church's signature holiday blowout, the Living Christmas Tree. Somehow I fail to be saddened at the discontinuance of something which always looked to me as if savage headhunters had decorated the tree with trophies of unfortunate missionaries. Nor will I miss the spinning disco-balls used to create "swirling snow" effects.
Thankfully, however, this year's iteration of the Living Christmas Tree has already joined the Ghosts of Christmas Past, and the Christmas Eve candlelight service of prayer and traditional carols is modest, tasteful, and restrained, especially by comparison with the spectacle put on by the archrival crosstown megachurch . I don't think I could have restrained myself from laughing at the twelve-foot-long organdy "angels" swooping over the congregation on wires and metal tracks. "Duck! Incoming!!!"
Dec. 25. Off to the races on Christmas Day for the mad highway dash through Oklahoma (stopping off to visit a newly-acquired set of relatives, the grandparents of my brother's wife) and Arkansas up to Missouri to spend the next few days visiting the aunties and uncles and cousins and granddad and other relatives beyond my meagre powers of genealogical description. (S.'s grandmother is an antiques dealer. Mother is a great fan of cutesy antiques. They should get along famously....)
Notable moment: While visiting Great-Aunt H., she delivers herself of the considered opinion that "You could get married too, if you'd just look like a decent person."
Fortunately, Walgreens takes gift returns, and the gift originally intended for Great-Aunt H. paid for some much-needed office supplies. This is not the first time she's chosen to insult someone at Christmas. Note to self: spiteful old bat can rot in nursing home in future.
Dec. 28. On the way back to Texas, stop off in Springfield to look over the offerings of the various model railroad shops. Springfield, of course, is the center of the Universe for all things Frisco....
Several hours and many dollars later, leave Springfield behind. Make very late arrival in north Dallas. Sleep most of next day.
Dec. 30. Make pilgrimage to that Mecca of southwestern railroad history, the DeGolyer Library. Revel in access to complete microfilmed collection of all Sanborn maps in Library of Congress! Photocopy madly until closing! Speak briefly with head of library who informs me that although they'd like to hire a curator for their railroad materials, well, with budgets being what they are... yadda, yadda, yadda....
Dec. 31. Trek over to Fort Worth to visit with the illustrious Pablo, resulting in random outsputterings of verbiage as seen in prior posts. Watch taped episodes of Firefly. Conclude that the television executives who cancelled the series before completing a single season are pinheads. What else is new.
Jan. 1. During return from Fort Worth, parents' borrowed truck begins making horrible grinding noise as brake pads wear out. Conclude there's nothing I can do about it at 2 a.m. on New Year's Day. Sleep. Make unsuccessful efforts to contact other acquaintances and former co-workers in north Dallas later in the day. Go to see Return of the King with parents. Spend a substantial amount of time explaining background of movie. Am slightly flattered when mother says that Viggo Mortensen looks like me, but recognize that she's biased.
Jan. 2. Truck is in shop, leaving me without transportation, until late afternoon. Make more unsuccessful efforts to contact local acquaintances. Raid local bookstores. Rummage through storage compartment containing books and other property I haven't had access to for two years. Realize that a substantial portion of it is junk. Realize also that there is no way in h*ll that I'm going to be able to find anything specific in that jumble of boxes. (Think of the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark; then compress all the contents of the scene into one 10x10 storage compartment.)
Jan. 3. Parents' other car needs repair work, too, leading to entertaining shuffle between various people and their transportation needs as I try to get various bulky gifts and purchases mailed to myself before the post offices close at noon. Pablo and Carlos pick me up in afternoon to go see fancy foreign flick at Inwood Theater. (Actually, the sign says I WO D nowadays, but who's counting letters?) Have pleasant lamb-kebob dinner at nearby Turkish restaurant. Chat about wine, women and song. Like Walker Percy's compatriots in his famous essay on Bourbon, wonder "Where Are The Women?" Conclude that we're all doomed.
Jan. 4. Fly back to Michigan to return to salt mines... er, library.
Jan. 5. Telephone interview with Catholic college in Houston, Texas in morning. Will they take me seriously? Don't count on it. At lunchtime, race to credit union to deposit paycheck. Truck power steering pump fails in middle of sharp turn, spraying steering fluid liberally around engine compartment. Steering 1/2-ton, 4wd truck suddenly becomes heavy manual labor. Briefly consider building up muscles by not fixing power steering. After running over a couple of curbs and veering into the wrong lane twice, decide that this is not a good idea.
Realize that paycheck has disappeared. Not metaphorically, but literally. Find out later in afternoon that University payroll won't replace paycheck for at least a week.
Jan. 7. Pick up truck from repair shop just in time to head to airport for interview trip to university in Georgia. Repair shop, to their credit, has actually fixed the problem at reasonable price and more-or-less on time. Arrive in Georgia at 10:30 p.m. and ride mass-transit train to downtown hotel. Risk of being mugged is minimized by short distance from subway terminal to designated hotel, which turns out to be reasonably attractive and comfortable, but lacking internet service. This is inconvenient since I still need to finalize presentation for job interview. Night clerk is ignorant and flippant about lack of knowledge of internet. Go to sleep.
Jan. 8. Up early to finish preparing presentation. Interview all day. Will spare you the details. Finish day by looking over Underground Atlanta, especially the impressive O-scale display layout representing various historically significant Atlanta buildings. No Tara plantation or Burning of Atlanta special effects, though. Return to Michigan on redeye flight.
Jan. 9. Returning to work at the library, find out that colleague who was supposed to cover my virtual-reference shift on the 8th failed to do so. Work most of the day at the reference desk, making up for missed hours of coverage.
Jan. 10 Do nothing all day. Nothing, blessed nothing. Note mysterious reddish spatter in closet. Did I drop something?
Jan. 11. Wake up to sight of cat peeing bloody urine in closet. Cat proceeds to do this repeatedly, every fifteen minutes, in every room of the apartment, with anxious look on face. Locate "emergency" weekend animal clinic. Several hours and many dollars later, begin dosing cat with antibiotics in hope that this is mere bladder infection. Vet also recommends eye ointment for watery right eye. (Cat's previous problem with left eye was surgically corrected this summer, so obviously he had to develop another problem or two.)
Jan. 12. Cat seems to be better; at least he's not spurting bloody pee every fifteen minutes. Begin morning by entering into negotiations with Cat over whether or not he will sit still for eye ointment. Negotiations take a hostile turn very quickly. Fortunately he's less hostile about taking his oral medicine. That may have something to do with the fact that I'm mixing it with canned catfood. (Silly cat!)
And so back to work again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)