Way More 80's Crap Than I Care to Reveal...

A long time ago, in a place that might as well be a galaxy far away, I did some writing about a high school detective named Veronica. There was a lot of down-time on that job, and I spent some of it doing research that might help my character solve her mysteries more easily. I read about tarot, psychic readings, Catholic symbolism (long story, but the dish of Saint Christopher medals in episode 202, Driver Ed, was my idea), STDs, and a bunch of other stuff that sometimes turned out to be useful, but mostly not.

One thing that would’ve helped me help Veronica is Sam Gosling’s book, Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You, but it wasn’t published until 2008, and by that time, I was back here, helping high school kids learn important skills such as including a “Table of Contents” at the beginning of their papers instead of a “Table of Context.”[1]

In Snoop Gosling delves into the science behind the messages that our stuff—and the things of others—says about who we are. How does the arrangement of our books reveal our personalities? What do we give away about our innermost selves in the geegaws and knickknackery displayed in our homes, offices, classrooms, and cars? How can we “read” others by looking at their surroundings? What does it mean that I have a set of South Park finger puppets and a unicorn-on-a-stick in my office at school?

Surprisingly, the messages you intend to send when you arrange your tchotchkes aren’t always the ones your observers pick up on, and you can’t always trust what you see when you make guesses about others’ lives based on their stuff. But you can learn some useful tools for understanding people and their personalities, and Gosling’s research and entertaining presentation shows you how.

But his book isn’t just (or really) about snooping on a subversive level. If you want to rummage through your acquaintances’ bedside tables and bathroom cabinets, be my guest, but there are some easier and more valuable things you can learn just by looking and listening to the indicators they display right out in public. And I’m not talking about the friends who have the Vietnamese Love Swing[2] in their rec room or whatever.

Everyday, ordinary, preferences tell us more about people than do the things they hide. Studies have shown, for example, that “music consistently trumps books, clothing, food, movies, and television shows in helping people get to know each other.” Keep that in mind when you’re snooping: you can learn more from the CD collection than the bookshelf.

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[1] Honest to God, someone really wrote that.
[2]Just for the record, I have no idea what a Vietnamese Love Swing is, nor do I know anyone who has one. I don’t think.

Are George and Lennie Mice?

The best thing about working in a library is that you can tell people to be quiet anytime you want and it's completely legitimate. Even if you just want them to shut up because you can't hear your Pandora, no one questions you. People have preconceptions about libraries that lend themselves perfectly to my desire not to listen to them talk about their lives.

Unfortunately, people also have other notions about libraries that are guaranteed to make me ponder hari-kari. Chief among these annoyances is the belief that libraries are places where one person talks to another person in a fearful whisper. I absolutely loathe whisperers, mainly because I can't hear what they're saying, but also because their timidity seems to imply that they must tiptoe around and be careful not to disturb me, lest I go berserk and poke their eyes out with a bone folder. Which I've only done like once, and that was on a day when I was even crabbier than I am right now.

Every profession has its annoyances, and my theory is that they stem not from the actual acts committed by the annoyers, but by the sheer repetition of those acts. How many times do kids have to walk through the alarm system and simulate its "beep beep beep" noise before I've legally earned a paid mental health leave of up to one year? And when I tell someone they have an overdue book and they say, "I've never even heard of that book," shouldn't it be permissable--in fact, required--that I throw something at or near their head? My job, as delightful and rewarding as it is, requires me to answer and/or respond to a wide array of asinine questions. I've detailed them here.

Turns out that my job, as a high school librarian, is, in part anyway, to train the people who will leave this institution and go into the Real World to torment the underpaid and overworked employees of the nation's public libraries. At least that's what I've discerned from reading Scott Douglas's memoir, Quiet, Please: Dispatches from a Public Librarian. You do not have to be a librarian to appreciate his story, just an appreciator of workplace humors. Seriously, if you like The Office, you'll appreciate the interactions Douglas has with the quirky cast of personalities who work with him at the small Anaheim library where most of his story takes place.

Weird patrons, finicky co-workers, and bizarre requests and problems are all a part of being a public librarian, and Scott Douglas makes hilarious work of his daily duties, which include not just answering stupid questions and chasing away misbehaving teenagers, but also fetching people who've fallen asleep in the bathroom, confiscating contraband, and requesting that masturbators take their um, handiwork, elsewhere. These are all things I've had to do in my own job (in addition to asking students to please not ninja-kick each other) so I'm obviously training the students well for their future library lives. Either way, this is a highly recommended read--one of the funniest books I've read this year.

When I'm Sixty-Four

I've been in Mexico four days and somehow can't seem to get Beatles songs out of my head. The cars and bars blast musica latina, 80s tunes, and a crapload of Air Supply, but Amy and I keep singing about returning to Puerto Vallarta to retire. We've modified the lyrics of "When I'm Sixty-Four" to accomodate our optimism about being nonegenarians at Playa de Los Muertos, and I keep humming "Paperback Writer." Hmmm.

If one IS a writer of paperbacks, there is a good chance that your work will end up in a cafe like Una Pagina del Sol, where travelers can trade used and/or crap books for credit towards purchases on other used and/or crap books traded in by other vacationers. Pagina (which just for the record, is pronounced pah-hee-nuh, NOT pa-JI-nuh) is located at 299 Olas Altas, on a busy corner in the Zona Romantica, ideal for watching tourists and just steps from Los Arcos, a large, clean hotel with easily accessible banos. "Going to Los Arcos" has become code for "the coffee just kicked in, and I'm going to appreciate the privacy of a clean bathroom."

The cafe/bookstore is frequented mainly by local ex-patriates and tourists, but not the kind wearing fluourescent bracelets who arrive on gigantic air-conditioned buses. We sat and watched as a terrified trio of these visitors huddled on the corner, waiting 25 minutes for the bus to return them to their hotel in Nuevo Vallarta, the land of Costco, Walmart, and gated security. 25 minutes! "Waiting for the tour bus" is our new synonym for wasting precious time in the midst of a beautiful life. It is the opposite of Saying Yes.

At Pagina, my personal shopper Amy helped me select books that allowed me to utilize my 30 peso credit as well as rid myself of another burdensome $70 pesos. Pagina has delicious coffee, superior licuados, and an unforgettable tres leches cake, but many of the books are of the yellow-paged, spine-cracked Grisham/Steel variety. However, we did find a copy of Deborah Rodriguez's memoir Kabul Beauty School and a 1978 paperback entitled How to Ask a Man by Judi Miller.

Miller's book, published at the height of women's lib, is intended for women who "wish not to be trapped by an old-fashioned dating sytem" and hope to "learn to approach a man--the RIGHT man!" by "bringing dating out of the dark ages!" It has provided quite a lot of poolside entertainment. Besides advising women to ask to see a prospective date's divorce papers, Miller also suggests that women cook for their man-of-interest. "Everyone has her own special recipe to use when a man comes to dinner. Whether it's Beef Stroganoff or Veal Scallopini, make sure you have three or four can't-miss recipes in your repertoire!" Other chapters include "Stopping That Macho Before It Becomes Too Mucho" and "Go Ahead! Pick Him Up!"

Kabul Beauty School, interestingly enough, is also about women's issues; Rodriguez went to Afghanistan in 2001 on a relief mission, and ended up returning there to live when she discovered that Afghan women were in need of professional haircare and that there were many women interested in running their own salons. Because of strict Islamic regulations requiring the separation of women and men for such personal services as hair care, waxing, and make-up, as well as the need for professionals to perform elaborate pre-wedding-ceremony hairstyling and removal rituals, Rodriguez recognized that women in Kabul needed each other, and she opened a school to help train a cadre of beauty professionals. Her story of friendship and love in an unlikely place is absorbing and uplifting, proof that we can all get by with a little help from our friends.

A Postcard from PV

A brief blog from the sunnier section: I'm on a sabbatical from the snow and rain, reading my way around Puerto Vallarta, where it's a surreal 80 degrees. I'm working on an article for the spring edition of Village Books' Chuckanut Reader, so I assume that all of my expenses on this trip are write-off-able, even if I am writing nothing about Mexico.

The topic for my upcoming piece in the CR is "light reads for dark times" and I'm focusing on smart humor to uplift and entertain us through economic hard times and other crap that sucks the fun out of life. So far, I haven't been able to add anything new to my list, but have been actively eliminating potential suggestions. For example, I didn't even have to read I Hope There's Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, because one of my travelmates (who asked not to be named so as not to be associated with the book) hated the book so much that he even refused to trade it in for credit at La Pagina del Sol, the favorite cafe/bookstore of the trio.

Apparently, Max writes proudly, exclusively, and in exhaustingly disgusting detail about his excessive drinking, mistreatment of women (including his "standards" regarding who he'll date), and his obnoxious attitudes about sex and just about everything else. One of those books that seems like a fun idea when you buy it at the airport, and then later just feels like a huge embarrassment. Perfect for chopping up and making some sort of craft project out of. Or something.

On the flight, I read most of Shauna Reid's memoir Adventures of Diet Girl because 1) I'd read a review of it thta made it sound funny and similar to Wendy McClure's weight-loss memoir, I'm Not the New Me; 2) like McClure's book, Reid's began as a blog about her amazing weight loss, and 3) I liked the cover. Reid's story is uplifting and fun, and her accomplishment is worthy of commendation, but the book feels too much like it was lifted directly from the blog without any further embellishment--no real subplots or suspense, and frankly, the writing is average and not particularly unuique. However, if your New Year's resolution includes shedding some excess flesh, consider this one as part of the overall motivational package. I certainly do, although for now, I'm off for some chilequiles. The workouts will have to wait...Adios y feliz ano nuevo!