Urbanized

The Urban Dictionary defines a Library Bitch as ...

... the scary old lady in the library that yells at you for moving a computer screen a lil bit. She probably has a penis.

Well, they're half right. Except that I'm not an old lady; in fact, I am not a lady at all. Which means yes, I do in fact have a penis. Although I don't particularly enjoy yelling at people at random -- I'd much rather hit them in the ear with a wooden stick. That's just me.

But let's not get into an argument over semantics.

I'd just like to say that I think an amended definition may be in order:

Library Bitch
A librarian who treats stupid people the way they ought to be treated: as stupid people.

The way I figure it, my dog is smarter than some of our patrons, and he still gets yelled at (and sometimes smacked across the nose) when he does something stupid. So, if logic is to hold, then in that case ...

... well, you get the idea.

World's not fair, man.

Coffee Shop Librarianship

I am a Librarian. Apparently, that label applies, everywhere I go. Guess it's the same for all of us.

Yesterday, I was sitting in my local [CoffeeShop], enjoying a fine lovefest with a wonderfully seductive Guatemalan brew (is there any other?), when I overheard the following:

Waitress: What's new, dude?

Dude: I hate government websites. Ever try and use one?

Waitress: No ... why are they so awful?

Dude: I need to get a certain legal document, but I can't find it anywhere online. And really don't want to pay for some ripoff lawyer to find it for me. So much for easy access, huh? Bunch of pricks.

Something in that conversation made me spring into action. It was like I saw a beam of light in the sky, outlining the symbol of a question mark, which I suppose is the librarian's equivalent to the Bat Signal. Before I knew what was happening, I was on my feet and on my way to save an individual from the ever-dreaded Lack of Information.

G: Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Today's your lucky day; I might be able to help you out.

Dude: Huh? Who the fuck are you?

G: I ain't Alice, Smokie (he actually got the joke). What was it you needed, if you don't mind me asking?

Dude: Oh ... uh ... it was ... er ... I have a legal issue I'm dealing with, but the law was amended recently, and I need the old statute and summary of changes in order to make my case. Why, are you a lawyer or something?

G: Even better. I'm a librarian.

Dude: [blank stare]

G: Li-brar-i-an. I work downtown at [Library]. We have copies of every statute, and all the amendments, in our reference area. Won't cost you a dime ... well, other than the photocopier fee.

Dude: You guys have that stuff? I thought you were just books, you know, like romance novels and shit.

G: Most people do, dude. Most people do.

So, the dude thanked me and went on his merry way. It struck me, as I walked out of [CoffeeShop] to head into work, that librarianship doesn't really end when the refdesk shift is complete; our workplace duties become ingrained, and a part of our daily lives. This is frightening -- it might actually mean that I enjoy what I do for a living!

(Although, deep down, despite the occasional rant which may seem contrary, I actually do enjoy helping others learn -- including such idiots as FakeTits and The OWG. If I can somehow, in some way, aid in their development from Idiot to Less Of An Idiot, I figure I'll have done the planet a huge favor in the process.)

Later in the day, I asked the ref staff if anyone had come in for any legal documents, and they mentioned that some dude (yes, they called him "dude" also) had photocopied a number of statutes a couple hours earlier. Cool, another person who now knows the library is more than just books! One by one, we'll eventually convert them all.

(Geez, now I'm starting to sound like the government!)

So keep an eye out for that Bat Signal -- er, Lib Signal, that is -- you never know when you will see that giant question mark lit up in the sky, signalling your call to duty to inform a lost soul of the breadth of information available at the library.

Rant Mode: Water, On The Rocks, With A Twist

Yup.

There is a water bar. A water bar. As in, they serve - you guessed it - water. Such a business actually does exist.

WTF?

Whose idea of a night out, honestly, involves sitting around and drinking water? Do people actually believe they can taste the difference between over 65 brands of bottled water, some of which go for upwards of $55 per bottle?

Now, I know you're probably expecting me to call the place a ripoff, or a scam. However, I refuse to do so - it's actually quite a brilliant business model. There are idiots everywhere, and this business has not only recognized that fact; they have managed to successfully develop a niche, and foster a new trend, within that most desirable market segment: the moron.

I mean, how the guy who spends $55 on a f**king bottle of water even manages to live his life with some measure of success is beyond me. Probably the same guy who coughed up the extra five-and-a-half grand to get a Saturn Sky, even though it is the exact same car as the Pontiac Solstice.

Point is, there is no one standing at the glacier catching the water in each individual bottle as it drips from the ice. There is no magical band of elves hanging around some mountain spring, filling bottles while singing a merry little tune. But the label gets 'em, every time, with that straight-from-the-fairy-tales fantasy of some noble kingdom of lilies and gold up in the mountains, the last vestige of pure water in all the land.

Truth is, the bottled water industry is the biggest crock known to mankind; it's a greater deception than Edison ever managed to pull (newsflash: those inventions weren't exactly his, he just took the credit). So let me ask you, how do you know where it really came from?

But it's been filtered, you say. Great. And purified, too, before going into the bottle. Right on, bro.

Still, I must ask:

What type of filtration was used, exactly? How was the water purified? Minerals? Which ones? Which mountain stream did the water come from? The one with the copper mine upriver? Or the one whose mouth is an aluminum tap? And doesn't the plastic bottle effectively defeat the purpose of the filtration? Doesn't that sh*t leech into - and poison - the water?

Now, I'm not knocking bottled water altogether. Yeah, it serves its purpose on long car or camping trips, and during rock concerts where you can't bring in your own because the stadium is getting a cut of all the concessions. Fair enough.

What I am knocking is the idiot who insists on drinking nothing but bottled water, because tap water has too many chemicals. Truth be told, most tap water is actually quite harmless. The chlorine content (which kills pretty much all harmful bacteria) may not conform to everyone's palette, but a decent filtration system in the home solves that issue, too.

In fact, a simple under-the-sink Reverse Osmosis unit with a carbon filter will strip out virtually everything, giving basically as pure a water as you can get. In other words, the same water you pay $2+ per bottle for, can be yours for a one-time investment of $400-$1000, which pays for itself in under a year in bottled water savings alone, without the added bonus of the poison plastic.

(To counter the poison plastic issue, some manufacturers are introducing glass bottles. Less of a health issue, and a great excuse to jack the price another 5 bucks for a product which is free in the customer's own home.)

But some people just want to be eclectic. They want to be hip. They must be a part of the latest trend. (Man, TV really has made us an insecure bunch, hasn't it?) So off to the water bar they go, spending more money in an evening than they would at a regular bar, in order to taste water, pretending to be high class, staying completely sober, and having to pee a lot.

Gee, sounds like a great time, fellas!

Spend for the trend, man. Spend for the trend. Be hip, be boss, all that. Me? I'm cool with the tap. I know my filtration system; I know exactly what I'm getting. That bottle could be filled with the spit of the factory workers -- how the hell would you know? Could you?

And six glasses a day? That's gotta be tough to keep up at a minimum $2 a pop. That's roughly $360/month you're spending on water, if you're keeping to current health standards (because you only drink bottled water for the health aspects, not because the TV told you so, right?). My last water bill, covering a bi-monthly billing cycle, was less than one-third of that.

And no, you don't "get what you pay for", when you pay more for a bottle of water. The price point doesn't indicate higher quality, it indicates that you are a dumbass.

Wait, scratch that.

Come to think of it, you are getting what you paid for: ripped off.

So enjoy your 500mL of [insert nature and deity metaphors here] water, folks, be it the two-buck variety or the fifty-five. Rest assured, I'll be enjoying the same ... for about 4 cents.

As for the water bar, well, I think they have taught us all a valuable lesson:

We're in the wrong business, folks.

Dis/Order

- Crumbs reside on the table.

- Dishes are piling in the sink.

- The coffee maker hasn't been cleaned since perhaps 1994.

- Dust bunnies are breeding rampantly in the corners, not unlike real bunnies.

- The food in the fridge no longer qualifies as food.


No, this is not a description of my house. This is worse; this is ...

... The Staff Kitchen.

You know, you'd think that librarians, of all people, whose entire profession rests on the merits of precision and order, would be able to keep a kitchen relatively clean.

This must be some sort of a private taboo, the one area of their lives where disorder and chaos can reign, where they can forgo their focus on order and just let the mess pile up. Where they can let someone else take care of establishing order, for once.

Problem is, when everyone starts thinking "someone else", there is suddenly no one left to do it. Hence the sorry state of the Staff Kitchen.

Librarians and disorder? Quite the irony, isn't it?

It's a good thing I don't eat in there. Otherwise I'd feel guilty, and perhaps inclined to do my part. Fact is, rarely do I ever step foot in that room, unless The Hot Girl happens to be there; which, of course, goes without saying. Otherwise, I make an active point to stay the hell away from that germfest.**

(** The kitchen, not the Hot Girl. Or so I hope.)

Pro-Bono

Some dude walked in to the library wearing track pants, today.

This, in itself, is not unusual by any stretch in a mostly lower-middle-class town.

This particular dude was, however, quite decidedly pro-bono ... if you catch my drift.

Coulda done without seeing that. Big-time.

(Pardon the pun.)

At this point, I figure that I can do one of two things. I can either keep it to myself, and wallow in the horror of the scene alone ...

... or I can share my misery with you.

At least your newfound horror will bring me a few laughs. Just knowing my misery will be shared sounds miles more fun than trying in vain to suppress the memory.

Sold!

And as an added bonus, we now have fostered a new connection, just between us. Next time you see a guy with an obvious woody tenting in his polyester trappings, you'll think of me; and when I see the same, I'll think of you. See? Isn't that cool? You and me, forever connected by some perverted slob's ill-timed rush of blood. Oh, what a wonderful world.

And people say I'm an asshole. Honestly, I have no idea why.

Sweet dreams, folks.

Thong Man

Thong Man came into the library this past weekend. Thong Man, of all people!!! I hadn't seen that guy in years.

Way back when, nearly half my life ago, the high-school-aged G used to hang at a small, overcrowded beach tucked along the backroads, about thirty miles outside the town. That's where I first saw Thong Man, whom I would come to recognize as a regular at that particular sandspot.

Thong Man, quite obviously, wore a thong. But not just any thong. This was a leopard-print thong. Yes, that's right. Yellow, orange, and black leopard-print, like the seat covers in some pimp's decked-out 1976 Lincoln Mark IV.

But it gets worse. Thong Man, I'm guessing, was a fan of Fabio. Or quite possibly Harlequin Romance, I'm not entirely sure which. Either way, he had the fully-styled Fabio hair, and a body that was beyond unnaturally muscular, which only a serious dosage of steroids could have built. It was impossible to NOT notice the guy, and he knew it.

Thong Man had a lady friend who would usually accompany him to the beach. Thong Woman, we called her, though I always thought Thongette was more PC. Some called them Tarzan and Jane, but I was never a fan of that story, so Thong Man and Thongette it was. She was a beauty, too ... fit but not too muscular (still feminine), with long wavy dirty blonde hair and no visible signs of cosmetic surgery of any type. Excellent.

She, too, wore a thong bikini. Matched his, actually. Spot for freakin' spot.

And here I thought the whole leopard-print thing died with disco. My bad.

Back to the weekend.

Seeing Thong Man, in the library, fully clothed (thankfully), brought back several memories which I had, until now, successfully repressed. I wish he hadn't come in; man, he's gotten old fast. He's still doing the Fabio thing, except that these days the hairline is in full retreat mode. There are few things sadder than a long-haired man who refuses to admit he is losing his hair. The shirt he wore was far too tight, and revealed a serious case of the ever-dreaded man boobs. Gravity's a bitch, fellas, no matter how many steroids are involved.

I wondered, for a moment, how Thongette was doing, whether gravity had struck her also, and whether the years had taken them away from the leopard-print stylings and into a new design of choice. Or were they still Tarzan and Jane?

Of course, as soon as I thought that, my mind naturally wandered to another particular notion: was Thong Man wearing a thong today, in the library? Was it the leopard-print thong we'd all come to know and hate all those years ago at the beach? And why the hell did I want to know this???

Thong Man found his books (not books on Tarzan, or leopards, surprisingly), checked them out, and left. I'm quite sure he didn't recognize me; why would he have? Unlike him, nothing about me really stood out those days. I was just your average skinny, pale, high school kid making fun of a man in a thong and staring all googley-eyed at his leopard-thonged lady friend. Those were the days.

Before leaving, Thong Man paused, turned toward me, and approached the desk. He ran his hand through his receding Fabio-styled hair, as several strands drifted aimlessly down to the floor.

"Pardon me", he began. "This may sound like an odd question, but ...

... do you guys have any Harlequins?"

Brand New Day, Same Old Sh*t

Been a while. Haven't had much to complain about lately ...

... except:

- The guy we caught masturbating in the public washroom. That was a new one. Won't go into any details; suffice it to say, at least he cleaned up after himself. That, too, was a new one.

- I was given a hard time by some for taking a sick day for the first time in over two months. In the meantime, there are other staff who seem to miss an average of one day every two weeks. How many sick days do they get, and how can I get in on that action?

- Tweens in the library. They seem to serve no purpose except to run in circles while simultaneously screeching at an extraordinary decibel level. Honestly, why can't we just be allowed to hit them with a stick? Worked wonders in the 50s, or so my father tells me.

- Vendors. They can't design a halfway-decent ILS or database, and don't seem to care to listen as to why we feel their products are inferior. They're in the business of software development; you'd think free upgrades addressing user concerns would be SOP. Of course, I only once worked in software development, for a vendor, so what the hell do I know?

- And I still don't have my new chair. Bastards.

So, yeah, nothing new, I guess. Just another couple weeks at the office.