The Gay Librarian

The Librarian has been reading some of Plato’s Socratic dialogues for the past few days: Apologia, Crito, Protagoras, Phaedo, Pheadrus, and Symposium, building up to a plunge into Republic. This is part of the Librarian’s continuing effort to better himself while sitting in airports, flying on planes, and lounging in the bath tub. Inevitable transcendence in return for very little effort. And were transcendence not the result (it will be, of course) the Librarian couldn’t complain, really, since he’s managed to get two new favorites from his efforts: Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past and Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. Without this reading plan, Stendhal would never have been an option. Problem is: with all this Plato to read, the librarian can’t get around to reading the new translations of Remembrance or re-reading Stendhal in order to find a particularly pithy quote he seems to recall being said by the “hero” of The Red and The Black. Maybe not. It could have been from any of a series of depressing French novels.

Regardless, the Librarian feels invigorated in this reading of tedious Plato: it is, of course, making the Librarian better than the people he knows. Tedium, is, evidently, a mark of excellence. But it is this elevation of one above others (i.e. the Librarian above the un-Platoed people he knows and pities) that makes it so very special. Also, the Librarian, getting to the original documents, the source, the origin, whatever, is now better equipped to make the judgement: Socrates deserved to die.

Prior to this reading, the Librarian felt, along with the rest of the Western world, how sad it was as Socrates drank his hemlock with his followers sitting around him tearing their hair, beating their breasts, putting ashes on their faces, or whatever primitive peoples do when mourning rather than quietly weep in a dignified manner. What most of us fail to realize is that Socrates is being put to death because he was so fucking annoying. In the Apologia he says, “Well, I was trying to see who was wiser than me, so I went around the city and hung out with people who were successful, thinking that they must be wiser than me, but I found out that they really weren’t, so, in the interest of being friendly, I told them, ‘hey, you really aren’t that smart.’” So, due to his offensive and completely unsolicited sharing of his opinion, the people of Athens felt that they had no choice but to put him down. The Librarian has difficulty feeling anything but understanding in their regard. Moreover the man teased Protagoras while arguing with him, “can’t you give short answers? I have a poor memory so can’t remember what the argument was by the time you finish,” and then goes on to say “blah de blah de blah de blah” for paragraph after paragraph.

There are commentaries that say that this is funny. How do they know? They are like literary specialists who say “Well, you have to know about the sensibility of the people at the time and immerse yourself in their milieu; then you will understand the humor.” And they laugh, snorting through their noses, over what a stitch Addison and Steele are. The Librarian hates that, and thinks that Eddie Izzard is funny because he does not have to be explained: “See Americans at that time thought that socks were funny! Yes! Funny! Because socks were on feet and kept in shoes! Yes! And Izzard, who was a British transvestite–a straight transvestite–wore socks and one could see them! Yes. *snort* Can you imagine?” The Librarian is much more of the mind to say “Yeah, they thought that was funny back then. Go figure.” Much less work is involved, and it can be done from one’s spa tub.

Unlike Emily Dickinson, though, Socrates does have some good points. In Protagoras, he follows Alcebiades to someone’s house on account of lusting on the young man, and, in Meno, he tells Meno, “I’m talking to you because you are so hot.” One cannot help but admire this sort of thing in the old man, even if he was kind of a busy body. Should the Librarian live to an advanced age, he intends to take up smoking, drinking, maybe illicit drugs, and fast driving. And, if Steven is deceased, lots of sex with anyone who will have sex with a drunk, drugged up old man who is going for the gusto before death comes along and ends it. This is a different philosopher than Socrates, but still, Greek is Greek.

Next entry: Ask Red Velvet Jesus to intercede for your sins.

In January, the Librarian, Steven, and Caligula moved from the deep suburbs of Baltimore County, to a downtown neighborhood known as SoWeBo, or South West Baltimore. SoWeBo was an up and coming neighborhood 10 years or so ago. It, however, seems to have up and gone to some degree. Don’t misunderstand: the Librarian loves his neighborhood, but has to admit that it isn’t Federal Hill. Fortunately it isn’t Essex, either. And it isn’t particularly dangerous in spite of this post. It’s actually a pretty good neighborhood. That abuts pretty bad ones.

The house the Librarian lives in is more than 100 years old. It has three floors and a basement. Because the Librarian’s bedroom is on the third floor, and the bathrooms are on the second floor and the basement, he has learned to do without the 2 AM trip to the bathroom. This will make him stronger or will kill him. There are really multiple reasons behind this: the stairs are steep, the Librarian has a bad knee, and there is no single squeaking stair: they all squeak. An adult human going up or down the staircase sounds like a piano in freefall.

There are, of course, benefits to living here. First the Librarian is an 8 minute walk to work now. And, theoretically, 8 minutes away from the gym. This remains an untested theory and is likely to be so for a while. Consequently, the Librarian has become larger, making a potential spill down a midnight staircase even more dangerous.

Other attractions are things like Lithuanian Hall immediately across the street. The Librarian lives in the old Lithuanian neighborhood. The Lithuanians have long since moved to the suburbs, but retain a footstep in the form of a meeting hall. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights are raucous celebrations of every kind of music that Baltimore listens to. Which, mercifully, has not included country & western.

The only drawback is that the Lith crowds leave at around 2 AM. They gather in our residential street and scream at each other, understandably continuing the party. Only many of us would like to sleep. Most weekend nights end up with police showing up, turning on sirens, and saying “Clear the area. The show is over. No need to remain in the street.” Sometimes helicopters show up and usher people away with the same words. Steven is attempting to use the same phraseology on Caligula to see if he will get out from underfoot during people meal time. To no avail so far.

One Sunday, the Lith was having an all day church service. Lots of noise and excitement. At 2 AM, there was the usual crowd on the street, making a sea of undifferentiated noise with the occasional sharp exclamation. But the sea turned angry and seemed to shift and roll. The police arrived, the sea parted and eventually went home.

Next morning, the Librarian found that someone had been viciously beaten outside the hall. Just like on The Wire. Pretty cool. A neighbor saw it and called the cops. He helpfully pointed out the blood. There have, unfortunately been no recurrences of this kind of excitement. Sure, there have being touristy excitements: the minister in the all-white suit, coat, and hat arriving in an all-white limo, tattooed and shaven-headed rockers, hoochie mommas going to either church or Ladies’ Night (a favorite song played by all cultures making use of the hall). But nothing as indicative of real feeling as trying to kill someone. However, just in case, Steven and the Librarian keep all doors locked and watch the events from an upper floor.

The Librarian was recently privileged to participate in a Medical Library Association webcast in re: Web 2.0. Privileged to share the screen with a number of terrific librarians and library-related persons who helped reinvigorate the Librarian’s interest in talking badly about librarians. Not in a malicious way, of course. Those of you who know the Librarian know that he endeavors, always, to instruct even if a certain amount of ridicule is required. In the Librarian’s classroom, humiliation is never simply random.

Having said that, let it not be thought that the Librarian is one of those authorities who say, “This is going to hurt me worse than it will you.” No. The Librarian fully enjoys making fun of you even while doing it to teach you a valuable lesson. Of course, the Librarian enjoys making fun of himself also. But another corrective is probably in order: the Librarian learns from no mistake, no humiliation, no pain. Every day is a new blank page for the Librarian: new mistakes, blots, erasures that looks just like the mistakes, blots, and erasures from yesterday will occur. But this is of no matter: the Librarian is not here to learn but to teach.

So. Reinvigorated and thus blogging again. Reinvigorated after a discussion about Web 2.0. Not a particularly good term. Somewhat useful. Indicative of something. Not quite sure what. Librarians have embraced the term, though. And, if not the term, then many of it’s precepts, certainly many of it’s tools. But that’s not what we are here to talk about. Oh, no. We are not here to build up, to say: here’s yet another web-based locus, a place where your users are. We are here, instead to tear down. To indicate where librarian zeal for Web 2.0 has made the world a little worse than it was before. The Librarian has made this a habit and sees no reason not to keep it.

So here is the locality, the place where librarians and their notorious bad taste meet middling new technology and, in their enthusiasm, their cat-hair addled impulse to disseminate information—all information, any information—make the Librarian want to believe in a god so he can also believe in Armageddon: Flickr.

The Librarian loves Flickr. It’s a terrific place to store, share, and find photos. It is also, to the Librarian’s mind, a terrific place to make a total boor of oneself.

There are two types of Flickr user: one who is eminently aware of Flickr’s social possibilities, and the one who is not. This, of course, is inevitable. The world can always be divided this way: the one who knows vs. the one who does not know. This, of course, is reductive since it completely ignores the person who says, “uhn, I thought, uh, maybe, uh, that it just might do that.” But that person should be ignored anyway, since that person seldom impinges upon the Librarian’s consciousness unless he or she is wearing a cat sweater, whereupon this person becomes the sole focus of the Librarian’s need to instruct. But the Librarian digresses. The point is: who to hate more? The person who knows precisely that the Librarian has subscribed to a feed that includes all photos with the tags “librarian” and “librarians” or the person who has no idea?

That’s a trick question. The Librarian hates them both if. IF. And here is the crux of this post. The intersection of technology and impulse that makes the Librarian want to smack knuckles with rulers, to give someone the, uh, rough side of his tongue. IF the Flickr user posts screen shots. Screen shots! No matter if the user knows there are subscribers. No matter if the user does not—ignorance is no excuse. The Librarian must suffer through exposure to snaps of someone else’s computer screen. Not of someone else’s party, meeting, presentation, library remodel. Of someone’s freaking computer screen.

Let’s remember that we are talking of librarians here. If the screen shots were, uh, artistic, say a capture of someone’s compromising webcam appearance, this would be of interest. But librarians. The screen shots are, instead, smug winks toward one’s own technological awareness: a Powerpoint slide with one or both words, “library” and “web,” combined with a versioning number, a screenshot of Second Life avatars “dancing,” or otherwise partying down (this is the equivalent of taking a snapshot of one’s IRC session, only the IRC session lacks the really embarrassing names and the ability to portray oneself as a total skank), or of, yes, a twitter post.

So the Librarian has an interest in librarians, not simply to make fun of them. The Librarian thinks they perform a valuable service and are, quite often, even with the evident social handicap of cat sweaters and complete insensibility to the presence of ear-hair in higher mammalian forms, interesting as people. So he subscribes to a librarian feed from Flickr, only to find that an inordinate number of “photos” therein are screenshots—self-congratulatory and terribly boring iterations of “I am in the know.” So, having booleaned out the term “screenshots” to help prevent this exposure, he finds this is still not enough. Some of you oh-so-smug Flickr users refuse to tag your screenshots thusly because you insist that the Librarian be in the know that you are in the know. Stop it. Being in the know is no excuse for being tedious. The Librarian would simply rather not know that you party down in Second Life. Partying down in Second Life is, marginally, more acceptable than dressing in character for a game of Dungeons and Dragons and certainly just as indicative of poor judgement. The most embarrassing part is that you do not know to be embarrassed.

The Librarian does not wish to be unkind. The first Second Life screenshots were mildly interesting, in the sense that the open-air domestic fray, complete with mullets and multi-colored fake nails, on the sidewalks of Pigtown in Baltimore are interesting. Not in and of themselves, but in that someone made the choice to share them. But, really, it’s been done. It is no longer art. (To be fair, the open-air domestic fray remains interesting regardless of its doneness.) There was need for only two Second Life librarian party screen captures to pound the message home: there are people out there who are cool enough to use Second Life. (Please note that the Librarian relies upon the intelligence of his readers to parse the real meaning of that last sentence.) So let’s just stop with the Second Life screenshots altogether, and let’s stop posting our Second Life avatars as our user photo in Ning lest our circular self-satisfaction reach a critical mass and cause a egocentric meltdown.

The Librarian apologizes for the digression into Second Life. There’s just so many places where an earnest librarian can go wrong, and it’s difficult not to put it all in one post. Maybe in the near future, the Librarian can fill you in on the the wisdom of versioning webs and libraries. In the meantime, remember: please tag your screenshots with the word “screenshot.” And please, should you capture a screen of someone’s (particularly anyone who is Famous-for-a-Librarian) ill-considered appearance on a web-cam, drop the Librarian a line and a URI, since he’d miss it otherwise.

This post is, incredibly, not alcohol-related.

There are two types of people in the world. Those who sneeze when exposed, suddenly, to strong light, and those who don’t. The extraordinary thing about this is that the two groups seldom know of the other’s existence. Those who do sneeze assume that everyone else does, too. And it never occurs to those that don’t that anyone else might–the same way, for instance, that it might never occur to the average person that there are people who eat rice almost exclusively as a breakfast cereal rather than as a savory side dish for lunch or dinner. What is unusual about this, though, is that while, surely, fewer than, say, 10 people in America eat rice as a breakfast cereal, more than a third of the population sneezes in strong light.

Why is this important? Primarily, of course, because the Gay Librarian is a sneezer. Step out of a parking garage into sunlight and within 30 seconds he sneezes. Usually twice. Secondarily because of the implications about communication. Either we don’t communicate well as people, or we don’t communicate well about sneezing. The Librarian thinks that sneezing is a locus where conversation fails. We seem to be able to talk about everything else. For instance, last year Toni Bentley’s memoir, The Surrender was a paean to anal sex. Heterosexual anal sex. Gross.

Sneezing is a proscribed topic in Western society. Possibly, uh, because sneezing is a boring topic. Or is thought to be a boring topic. On account that people don’t realize that there are some people who sneeze in bright light and some who don’t. Well, certainly, those who don’t sneeze in bright light could care less about sneezing in bright light since it has little effect in their lives. Unless, of course, they are on a bus, driven by a photic sneezer, that emerges from a long, dark tunnel into the summer sun into a situation that requires a split-second decision by the sneezing driver. Like, say, a polar bear attack or something. Something less lame than that example. Ok. So, really, it does have little effect.

These non-sneezers are, surely, a little jealous. Why? Because a photic sneezer, when faced with one of those sneezes that threaten sneezus interruptus, can usually look into the sunlight or an office light, or, possibly, the lit tip of a cigarette provided the person smoking it inhales on it for a long time, and finish the sneeze.

Why is this important? No reason, really. Just something the librarian thinks about. Mainly because he enjoys sneezing and assumed that everyone else did. Only this turns out not to be true. In his researches re: photic sneeze, the librarian discovered that some people dread sneezing, not just the ones who’ve just had major surgery. There is a small population of people who experience nausea and feel as though they are going to guff just before they sneeze. Incredible.

Additionally, the librarian found that many people compare the sneeze to the orgasm. A build up of tension and a release. Now, this is not a secret–the two reflexes are quite similar. Only… frankly? The librarian thinks the two sensations are actually similar, also. Thought, in fact, that everyone had a nose orgasm when sneezing. (Which explains why the librarian likes to sneeze.) Only, for some people, a sneeze is just a release of air. No tingling, no pleasure… And, perhaps this is why we don’t talk about sneezing. Because it, inevitably, becomes a discussion about nose orgasms. Tantric sneezing, and the like.

Ok. See? This is why the librarian sometimes goes without posting to this blog. He writes posts, but doesn’t put them up. They go nowhere or are just aren’t that funny. Except that, really, sneezing is funny. Especially when dogs do it, wrinkling up their little snoots and blowing dog snot all over the place. Lord, dogs are just funny anyway.

Deadly Jellyfish Halt Hollywood Production.

If they will stop Matthew McConaughey, they will stop a librarian.

On the other hand, Max, if you are stung to death you may, before you die, get to meet Dr. Jamie Seymour, whom the librarian saw writhing in pain in a pair of swim trunks and no shirt on one of those channels where people poke at animals for the entertainment of television viewers. The librarian was intrigued in spite of the damning wedding ring he was wearing. (Well, in spite of the librarian’s vows, also. But we’re all human, right? Right?)

The Librarian’s friend Max will be coming up for a brief visit soon, so the Librarian started neatening his apartment, basically, hiding his shame. The Librarian and Steven are not as bad as the late, lamented Quentin Crisp who said that if one does not clean an apartment for 6 months, it never gets any worse. But they could certainly be better.

The Librarian made his first stab at cleaning up by putting his shoes away, throwing away old Atlantic Monthlys, used theater tickets, the front covers to Netflix mailers, etc. Most of which were piled on the coffee table. Once this was done, the librarian applied artistic touches to the table, placing things strategically so it looked as if this month’s Atlantic, a copy of Mark Childress’ new book, One Mississippi, a votive candle holder from Ikea, and various television, stereo, and dvd remotes had all fallen from space and accidentally arranged themselves in a casual yet pleasing, asymmetrical but balanced way on the two levels of glass table. At least one of the remotes had to be angled so that they didn’t appear to be on a grid; the reading matter could be stacked symmetrically, but only if the votive candle holder had room to be angled and off center. Etcetera. The librarian has yet to encode his rules of design for the benefit of others, but, perhaps, one day…

So. The coffee table was a triumph. Undusted, because the librarian hates to dust, nevertheless a paragon of domestic artistry.

As the librarian sat back to enjoy his work (and ignore the horrible kitchen), Caligula the Cat lept onto the coffee table, threw himself onto his back and began to wriggle around like a dog on the carcass of a long-dead groundhog. Soon, everything looked as if it had fallen from space indeed, had, in fact, fallen through space onto the floor where it will remain. On the bright side, the tabletop has now been cat-dusted.

Max will be visiting Australia soon. The librarian wants to hate him for this since jealousy is a duty of friendship and Australia is an exotic new country and all, but, frankly, the librarian is unable to. He is, instead, afraid for Max. If any continent, aside from Antarctica, were more antithetical to human life than Australia, the librarian does not know of it. Well, of course, aside from all other continents below the equator. But Australia is unlike the other continents that hate people. Australia not only wants people to die, but it does it with seduction. Cute little, tiny jellyfish, octopuses with lovely jewel tones, astonishingly adorable little furry beasties with duck bills… All poisonous or deadly. No one wants to snuggle with a South American anaconda, but who can resist a duck-billed platypus? Well, anyone, the librarian supposes, who has been spurred by the horrible little monster. They aren’t at all like Mr. Rogers would lead us to believe.

The librarian watches the Discover and National Geographic channels a lot. And most programs taking place in Australia end up with some scientist rolling around on a hospital bed saying, “The pain… is… excruciating…it’s all over…my body…please…kill….me.” Or with a narrator saying, “Maude McAdams went swimming off of this lovely beach and was never seen again.”

It isn’t that Australia is dangerous. It is, but then, so is Phoenix, AZ with it’s stupendous heat and man-eating plants. It’s the betrayal that makes it so bad. The evil plants in the desert warn one off, but the evil things in Australia beg one to touch.

The librarian will never go there.

Unless, of course, one day he is given a trip or he can afford to go business class. 24 hours in coach is betrayal enough.

After two years or so, the Librarian has resuscitated his plan to read, er, the Really Good Books of Western Literature. The librarian hesitates to say “The Great Books” because Newton’s Principia is not on the list. Nor, for that matter, are a number of other books guaranteed to make one’s eyes roll up and never come back down.

Something happened two years ago to impede the librarian’s progress through these volumes, and that something was Anthony Trollope’s The Warden. It just wouldn’t go down. It’s not a thick book, but, somehow, it defeated the librarian’s desire to be a better person (as misguided and as redundant as that goal is). Somehow he made it through William James’s The Varieties of Religious Experience but the librarian choked on The Warden, stopping the plan mid-stride. Trollope has hung over the librarian’s head (fortunately not so close that his ZZ Top-like whiskers tickled) for lo these twos of years. It was impossible to go forward in the plan with Trollope there, all hanging and being all mid-nineteenth-centuryish, challenging the librarian’s hip twenty-first century tasteful, short chin beard with his own full, manly, facial hair.

There has been a breakthrough, though, and the librarian has finished The Warden. Now, the librarian would be hesitant to say any of this were he to think that his blog was made up mostly of English majors, each of whom would correct him on Trollope, saying that the book is worth it alone for the delightful caricature of Dickens, that perhaps the librarian does not understand the subtle ironies (btw, they really aren’t subtle) or delicately drawn characters (they aren’t that delicate, either). But truth is? The librarian would much prefer to read a new Augusten Burroughs book. Regardless of subtlety and delicateness. Nevertheless, The Warden was not so bad once one gets past its mise en scene.

However.

Next on the list of pretty good books that will make the librarian a pretty good person is Darwin’s Origin of Species. If The Warden seemed a nearly impossible bolus (with it’s not-so-subtle ironies and not so delicately drawn characters, but pretty good sense of place and humor) to swallow at first, Darwin is likely to choke the librarian to death.

So, here’s what happened. The librarian goes to and from work via subway. He takes a book with him for the 40-minute give or take one-way commute. (Yes, the librarian commutes because he lives in a large city. Were he to live in, say, Lafayette, IN or even Mobile, AL, he would just travel or drive back and forth to work. It’s a level of sophistication that not everyone in America can appreciate.) So, one day, he set off with Origin of Species and the latest Neal Asher novel (so late as to not be available in the US yet; once again, a level of sophistication only a few can appreciate). The Asher being a fall back, a life vest even, should Darwin become too turgid. And it goes without saying that Darwin did. Become too turgid. The Asher though, was a faulty life-saving device. Pages 59 through 88 were missing. The librarian was faced with the choice of reading Origin or staring at his fellow subway passengers. And the librarian has learned his lesson in regard to staring: the abyss that stares back is the woman with sore feet who hates her job and hates getting out of bed before 8 am and had to get her children off to the sitter after making them breakfast and had to stand for 5 minutes in 18 degree weather because the train was late. So it’s always best not to meet their eyes; shades are essential even in the tunnels.

Getting a replacement copy of the Asher, which, as the librarian parenthetically pointed out, is not yet available in America is going to be a bugger (“bugger” not being a word usually used in America is actually a level of pretension but also of sophistication that few can appreciate).

These encounters with Really Good Books has left the librarian with the, probably only vague and probably completely unsupportable if given greater scrutiny than the librarian is constitutionally able to, uh, give, idea that they are the reason that young people suck. Well, suck in a bad way, and not really in a general way, but in regard to reading and writing. These Really Good Books are why freshman papers are so bad and why younguns don’t like to read. And the fault lies with, well, the expectation that students in primary schools should get a sense of the history of literature without, first, getting a sense of where we are now.

The librarian remembers reading Romeo and Juliet, Great Expectations and Silas Marner in junior high and high school. Two of those are Really Good Books and the other is laughably sentimental especially given the sophistication of modern high school students. All of Dickens is corny and alienating to younguns. Even his more refined contemporaries thought his stories were risible (Trollope and that guy who buggered young Lord Douglas, for instance). Why should anyone forced to read about Philip Pirrip (Pip) want to explore literature any further? The creators of South Park think the idea of Pip is hilarious and so did the pre-gay-librarian back in the 10th grade. When Pip reports that his play at Miss Havisham’s consisted of waving flags, the 10 grade pre-gay-librarian clearly remembers thinking, “WTF?” Who waves flags and considers it fun? Should one enjoy waving flags, how long can one wave a flag before deciding that it has become tedious?

While Romeo and Juliet and Silas Marner were enjoyable to the adolescent librarian, the Shakespeare was enjoyable only through negative capability. The librarian had little understanding of what was said in the play and found it stiff going, but people died in it and the librarian got to read the part of Romeo in front of the class. Plus, Mr. McKinley was his teacher, and Mr. McKinley could do no wrong, him being one of a long line of teachers the librarian was in love with. Mr. McKinley was the adolescent librarian’s Juliet. Except more naked than in the play. At least in the librarian’s filthy hormonal mind.

Anyway, the point is, young readers faced with the antique diction and equally aged sentiment of the Really Good Books that are forced upon them can’t help but be alienated by literature. So perhaps we should forego history in the interest of actually getting them interested.

Finally, what brought on this round of speculation about reading and writing and the inability of young people to do either was the first two chapters of Origin of Species.

Lord! Oh Lord!

Sweet Jesus!

Could Darwin not say anything directly? Could he not make an assertion without writing “I believe”? Could he not qualify each statement as if he were afraid that a simple declarative would be ungentlemanly?

We don’t write like that anymore. Ok. The librarian does, but it’s for effect. The librarian has an advanced degree in English and is therefore a professional. He’s earned the right to be pretentious and over-written.

However, most young people are exposed to, admittedly not Darwin, but certainly to Dickens and other long dead writers writing in long dead styles. Because our interest in teaching them about the history of literature precludes the possibility of showing them how contemporary literature should be written.

So they write the way that they think good writing is done: with high Victorian diction that demurs from making a point. They don’t know any better not having reached the level of sophistication that earning an advance degree in literature can afford them. (The librarian would have written “that only a few can really appreciate,” but the truth is that one in three people have a masters degree in English, although most will fail to own up to this if asked.)

PS: Lord of the Flies and A Separate Peace were also on the librarian’s high school reading list. The one clearly says: you may be young, but you are still horrible little animals, and you would resort, probably, to cannibalism were the teacher to leave you alone for more than 15 minutes. The other says, high school boys are hot; why don’t you turn gay? Which is why the young librarian loved A Separate Peace even if he most specifically did not have a crush on his teacher that year. He did think, though, that it is probably far better to actually do the guy one has a crush on than to try to kill him, but that’s just, evidently, the way straight boys are.

PPS: Catcher in the Rye is a must to be avoided for teenagers, too. It says: I’m from an affluent family, but still I have angst. I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed! Suck. Plus? It’s the favorite book of presidential assassins and serial killers, so go ahead and make ‘em read it, but don’t let ‘em watch Taxi Driver after.

PPPS: The librarian thinks some Joan Didion and some Iris Murdoch are good choices. Teenagers love bleakness.

PPPPS: All these PSes are because the librarian wrote the word “finally” somewhere up above, so he can’t keep making points in the main body of the post without taking out the “finally,” but that would mess up the flow of the sentence.

PPPPPS: Once he gets started, the Librarian has difficulty letting Holden Caulfield go. There is no doubt that Holden will, once he gets out of the hospital, continue his education at another prep school (one for students with a delicate disposition), will take a year off after to go to Europe and hang out, all the while feeling wounded for being, well, Holden Caulfield. Then he will attend Harvard or Yale, all angry, once again, for the constant specter of catered garden parties and August in the Hamptons. Then he’ll graduate. People will tell him to go into plastics, but they won’t understand, man (the librarian is at a loss on this one; whether to italicize “understand,” “but they won’t understand, man” or to italicize “man,” “but they won’t understand, man.” But he’s fairly sure something should be italicized there). And baby boomers will nod their heads because they think he’s right: they don’t understand, man. Plastics. Because it’s unfair for boomer children of affluence to actually have to do something. It’s all angsty-causing, man. Don’t they know about love?

PPPPPPPPPPPS: The librarian hates The Graduate also. Spoiled rotten f—ing brats.

The Librarian has renewed (after 2 or 3 years, but who’s counting, really) his gym membership and has been trudging two blocks through the snow in order to punish himself for not living in a hunter-gatherer society where the extra calories from the Morningstar Farms Vegetarian Buffalo Wings would be worn off long before mid-day. Also, he may well be working at the Gay & Lesbian Medical Association conference this September in Puerto Rico, and those doctors really take their Speedos seriously, and if he works very, very hard, the librarian may well be at remedial Speedo level by September.

The librarian tends to take to these health-related matters with the energy and dedication of the born again. Well, with the same energy and dedication the librarian applied to being born again when he was a teenage jesus boy. Which is to say, he sticks to it for a number of months (around 3) and proselytizes to all around about the benefits of the Zone diet/long-distance walking/weight lifting/speaking in tongues until the pleasures of the flesh drag him from that rarefied state of religious or health-consciousness sainthood to the world of the pizza-eating, elevator-taking, uh, self-touching sinner.

When the librarian was a teenager, he was, from time to time, very jesus oriented. He’d become frightened that onanism and impure thoughts about Gil Gerard would send him to hell for eternity, that he’d wake up one morning and find that everyone in his family had been taken in the Rapture and he had been left behind. As a prophylactic measure, the librarian became born again. Only then, once he was certain of his sainthood, he’d begin to worry about the state of his sister’s soul, because fate never decreed that both the librarian and his sister would be “saved” at the same time. So, instead of lying in bed worrying about his own fate in hell, alternating with images of Gil’s hairy chest, the librarian would lie in bed, worrying about his sister and trying not to think of Gil and his junk. So the librarian jesus boy would share his good news with his sister, who already knew the good news but was dealing with her own bouts of preferring, one assumes, beer over communion. As jesus boys have been, time immemorial, the librarian was invited to leave his sister alone.
The librarian has a friend who claims that, during a Zone phase, he never spoke to her without mentioning diet. It isn’t that the librarian thought that she was fat, it was that the librarian felt that she hadn’t seen the light, and that, once she had received true knowledge, she’d begin counting proteins, carbs, and fats just as the librarian did. For her health.

It never lasts, though: the health efforts, the jesus-loving. The librarian is way too lazy to stick to it. Way too lazy not to give in to his native impulses: to sit on his ass, watching TV or surfing the web, to think of Gil Gerard in the shower. One’s own personality is as inevitable as gravity. Which is probably just as well since the librarian would alienate all his friends, metaphorically showing up at their doors with a short sleeved white shirt, black tie, backpack, and the sentence “Can I talk to you about your soul/weight/health?” always on the tip of his tongue.

“Caligula” means “little boots.” The Roman emperor was nick-named Caligula because, as a small child, he would to dance for his father’s soldiers, wearing a tiny soldier’s uniform complete with little boots. So the soldiers called him “little boots.” “Dance, little boots! Dance!” It’s no wonder he married his sister and did those other things he did. The librarian still shudders when he thinks of performing, with an umbrella, “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” for adults who seemed to delight in it when he was 6 or 7. Really, someone ought to think of the adult that child will one day become.

Anyway, what brings this up is the librarian’s cat, Caligula. Caligula is a black cat with white boots and mittens. Which is partially how he got his name. He has something else in common with the emperor also. It seems that the Roman had some people lined up (the reason escapes the librarian) and he “attacked their genitals.” The librarian cannot cite this since it was learned second hand from his partner, Steven, who reports that one morning Caligula, the cat, well, attacked his. So Steven insisted that his name be “Caligula” on account of the little boots and the genital attacks.

Caligula was not sought for (and this was also probably true of the emperor as well). He showed up in the entry-way of the apartment block and lolled about there for a number of day, having, evidently been abandoned by some of the librarian’s neighbors. So the librarian and Steven took the kitten in, swearing to find him a home. However, Caligula has some personality issues. One of which is noted above. He also bites, lunging in like a cobra. “Striking” is a good description of what he does, and one cannot at all believe that anything but malice lies behind the behavior. Plus, he pees and poos on enameled surfaces. Bathtubs, for instance. So his litter box cannot be stored in a bathroom, and all bathroom doors must remain closed at all times. He will also go in a clothes dryer since the drum is enameled. He has an electric litter box and is comfortable with it, but will take to enamel any chance he gets. So no one really wants him. The librarian and Steve have resigned themselves to owning yet another difficult pet, the last being a hyperkinetic Dalmatian who had bladder-control issues resulting from a pre-estrus hysterectomy.

Caligula is seldom called “Caligula.” He’s called “Boots,” “Little Boots,” “C. C.” (short for “Caligula Cat”), but mostly “that cat” and “the cat” and “goddamn cat.”

The librarian knitted a catnip-stuffed mouse for Caligula today. Here’s a photo of him playing with it:

Here one sees the boots for which he gets his name. Additionally, it’s easy to see the posture that he assumes when attacking genitals. The tail, combined with the white boots form a three-point structure that is sturdy and affords him considerable leverage for lifting himself high and batting at dangling objects. The mittens, cute as they might be, hide hooked claws that seem ideal for attaching themselves to delicate flesh.

While the librarian and Steven have resigned themselves to 15 plus years of delight, they will not deprive anyone else who may find pleasure in the characteristics described above. Should you wish to give CC a home, contact us. A free hand-knitted cat-nip mouse will be included. Along with an electric litter-box and some bathtub cleaner.

This tagging exercise (Thanks, Linda!) will be difficult for the librarian given the confessional mode of his blog and the fact that he tells everyone every little thing about himself. But he will assume that there will be some people out there who do not know these things.

• The librarian can tie a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue. He saw this feat being performed on Twin Peaks and knew immediately that he could do the same thing. He was right. He was not, however, able to do any of the dance moves from Flashdance in spite of a strong conviction that he could.
• Cake is the librarian’s favorite food. A few years ago he overhead his mother congratulating his sister for having a baby who learned to walk before his first birthday. “Wait,” interrupted the librarian, jealously, perhaps, “I learned to walk before my first birthday!” “No” replied his mother. “I did! That picture of me on my first birthday, walking toward my birthday cake proves it.” “Those were your first steps ever,” was the librarian’s mother’s reply. So. The librarian’s first steps were toward cake, and intervening steps have all been toward the guarantee that cake will continue to be part of his life.
• The librarian drinks a 42-oz diet coke every workday morning. This causes him to have non-life-threatening heart palpitations. He’s ok with that.
• The librarian has Photic Sneeze Reflex. Also known as ACHOO syndrome. This means that the librarian sneezes when suddenly exposed to bright light. 1 in 4 people have this condition. This includes the librarian’s mom, his sister, and his sister’s children.
• The librarian was a member of his high school “Scholar’s Bowl” team. He buzzed in once and answered correctly “Thoreau.” He pronounced the name “Thor-ew,” though. All knowledge of the world outside of Alabama he had discovered in novels by Judith Krantz and Harold Robbins. This, surprisingly, went a long way.

People the librarian tags: Sheila’s Glamorous Adventures, The Consuming Traveler (both of whom nag the librarian, but never post anything themselves), Fivepointsfromgryffindor (because Jewish librarian boys are sexy), and DanfromAkron (you know, that Cole Porter song on your myspace page? I thought it was some sort of weird “Hotel California” mix at first).