Protected: RAY BRADBURY!

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Hot Librarian Lovin’

Mr. Raccoon gave me the eye today. I was creating a computer reservation for him, and I think I saw his toupee twitch out of the corner of my eye. “Hey, haven’t I seen you in a magazine or something?” I say that I doubt it and stare directly at the computer monitor. He persists: “Yeah, Cosmopolitan or something, or Elle?”Finally I feel it’s safe to really respond: “You read Cosmo?”

Ah. Mr. Raccoon. I will miss you once I’m gone. Dealing with flirtation is probably the ugliest part of library work; without exception, the flirts are old, greasy, and either hirsute or hairless. Much is said about me being a gorgeous young lady or pretty young miss or that my name is so exotic. Lies, all lies: I show up post-afternoon-nap-bleary at the reference desk, dressed in flip flops and sweats, with my hair tied into a massive lump.

My all-time favorite awful patron 1) insulted the other librarian until she literally sprinted away from the desk, 2) told me I was rude and a miserable person and should be fired, and 3) went immediately to another librarian to declare how much he hated women. All this clad in an XXXL trout-patterned Hawaiian shirt, chawing meanwhile on a toothpick. Admittedly, he wasn’t trying to flirt with us (I hope), but I truly love that part about women-hating. It really brings home just how classy some library patrons can be.

After I told him the story of Trout-man, Mr. Philosophe told me that at his library, a man punched out a library clerk with brass knuckles because she refused to go out with him. Ah, l’amour.

Still, romance is possible in the library. Mr. Philosophe and I met on the desk, after all; and it was bosom-heaving dreamy: he challenged my mad reference skillz, I called him “dude” repeatedly, mistook him for being 15 years older than me, and he ended the day by asking for my number.

Coincidentally, my dad just began a romantic relationship with an old friend–they met in their college library 20 years ago. Romance: @ your local library.

Hello, nurse

When I first came to the United States, I brought with me my one stuffed animal: a Mickey Mouse plush. My dad (well, stepdad) sent it to me in China when he was courting my mother. And so my adoration for animation began early on…

At my first home in the US, I would wake up very, very early in the morning and slink around the dark house until I was sure that everyone else was still in bed, tip toe into the den and curl up in the big, squishy recliner. I’d wrap one of my grandmother’s quilts around me and turn on the television. Ok, it was 4AM. Nothing’s on but static. But around 5AM, the first cartoons would flicker onto the screen: usually something Hanna Barbera–Flintstones, Jetsons, Yogi Bear, or Tom & Jerry.

Then came the classic Disney shorts, one of which scared me out of my mind. It was something about a fox tricking some chickens in a coop; I don’t remember much about the plot. But the last scene will stay in my nightmares forever: the fox licking a chicken bone, and then slowly–with such malignant satisfaction–sticking the bone into a graveyard of chicken remains.

Tyra vs. Ty

vs.

On sunday nights in Casa Mia (yes, that's its name! It's even tiled into the house itself!), a battle ensues for the big screen tv in the family room. Dad wants to watch Extreme Makeover, and I want to watch the Simpsons. He gets pretty tiffed off because this apparently shows my lack of compassion for all of humankind.

He once forced me to sit and watch an entire episode of EM. It made me want to remove my eyeballs with a spork.

But I do watch Top Model. It's fair to wonder: isn't Top Model a much less worthy show than EM, where people build massive houses for deserving families?

I think the key problem between these two shows is exhibitionism. Extreme Makeover tastes artificial, creepily planned in order to pull on the heartstrings of a conservative (dare I say Christian?) audience, and thereby to sell lots n' lots of products (for Sears). It feeds on exaggeration and makes a monkey show out of charity.

Look how nice we are! Look at how generous we are! We are so super! Look at these clever little gags we play on each other! Ha! Ha ha! We call each other "gang"! Look at how goofy–and hardworking–Ty Pennington is! He's a Caucasian carpenter that works miracles for worthy people–could he be the reincarnation of the Messiah? Look look look!

What is also a little ironic to me about this show is that two of the designers are clearly gay, and yet half the people they build houses for probably think that they are devil spawn.

EM is Habitat for Humanity on steroids. These houses are unbelievably extravagant. With the materials that went into one house, they could probably build 10 modest houses for other "deserving" families. But remember: the focus is not on sharing the wealth, but rather heaping it onto the chosen few.

That said, are the people on their shows "deserving"? Yes, absolutely. They seem like genuinely nice folks. But the show's insistence on "deserving-ness" seems to involve a judgment that's, well, wrong.

I think EM exemplifies everything that's fucked up about American charity/generosity: sure, there's a lot of it, but we tend to be pretty showy about the giving of it, pretty picky about who gets it, and pretty damn smug about how great we are for doing it.

Guilty Pleasures

At Dartmouth, senior year, Annie and I lived without TV. Yes, we of Lamb-Cha suffered mightily: no Trading Spaces to brighten our days, no Jon Stewart to light up our nights. She and I (I think I will excuse Christine and Vy from this as I think they sort of just got suckered along against their will into our all night Wildboyz marathons) had gotten pretty addicted to television during our term in Dublin.

Annie grew to love that Jessica Simpson/Nick Lachey show (what was that called?) and we watched Wildboyz & Jackass with equal parts desire and shame. Partially it was due to the low quality of Irish tv; there was one show–I think it was Kristie’s Home Videos or something like that–which would, during late hours, intersperse cute videos of tots running into trees with clips of naked people walking around. They weren’t even pornographic naked people; they were just naked people baking cookies, naked people playing tennis (ew), naked people in sneakers climbing a Mexican pyramid. Suffice it to say that the best stuff on Irish tv came from the good ole U.S. of A.

Annie reflected on these developments with despair: “I never watch tv,” she said, guiltily, as she ogled Nick Lachey. I too felt a twinge of guilt; I had been through 2 3/4 years of a college education without a boob toob. and there I was drowning my sorrows not in a pint of genuine Irish Guinness but in the mesmerizing homoeroticism of mtv. I was lost.

But now, a year on out of college, a regular diet of television has freed me from the shackles of intellectual guilt. God, how did I live without it? And we don’t even have cable. In my defense, I only watch *good* tv. That is: Simpsons (pref. seasons 3-8), Family Guy, South Park, and America’s Next Top Model. I have always enjoyed cartoons, ever since I was a leetle girl.

The key is that I love a good belly laugh. And nothing provides it like a show about bitchy beautiful anorexics slapping each other around, all under the guruship of Tyra Banks–who, as you can see from the picture above, is really beyond my ability to describe. They bumble about, mumbling about FIERCENESS as hideous gay men insult them and poufferize their hair. Ah me.

Mr. Philosophe came over unannounced one night–on TOP MODEL NIGHT–and was greeted by the sight of me disheveled, in my “top model clothes” (sweats), and with a crazed gleam in my eye. Yes, of course he sat through it with me–he rilly rilly likes me after all! After he left, daddy was like, man, he must RILLY like you.

I must close by saying that every single Asian model they choose for this show is actually pretty plain. Or just…dunno…überAsian. Naturally they never win.

I thank Miss Sylvia for linking to fourfour, which provided the above photo…what a fabulous site. Does anyone else watch this show? Does anyone else share my secret shame/unholy passion?

Protected: Name, field of interest

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Why I Will Not Be A Librarian For A Very Long Time

On Thursday, the children’s librarian was waxing philosophical. “I just spent the last 1 1/2 hours cleaning the vomit off of each individual monkey in the barrel,” she said. She then looked at me, piercingly. “Your day is coming. Mark my words.”

So these are the events of the day-to-day in a public library: children puke into the Barrel of Monkeys game. Fat bald men whack off in front of the computers. Hordes of teenagers float from one end of the library to another, screaming. Did I also mention that in the past few months, we’ve found two incidences of people urinating on the chairs (strangely enough, NOT in the children’s section)? Additionally, I have encountered more bearded ladies than I ever thought existed. These are seriously bearded ladies: mustache, the occasional flavor-saver, muttonchops, what have you.

I have nothing against them, of course, I just find them FASCINATING in a probably very un-PC and un-Public-Servant-ish way. But more to the point, IS my day coming? Am I doomed to cleaning vomit, calling 911 (actually, I’ve already done this twice), and listening to parents bitch about their kids’ homework?

Nooo.

Friday, I accepted UCLA’s PhD offer. Come September, I’ll be living in Westwood, back in class, safe in the ivory tower of academia from all the monkeys in a barrel that the world can throw at me. Today I’m turning in my resignation letter; I am feeling strangely buoyed.