Day 103: The Alchemist's Daughter

The Alchemist's Daughter by Katharine McMahon.  ISBN: 9781415927670 (audiobook). 

"...the expectation of heaven can be no substitute for what happens here, it can't be an excuse for infliction of misery on others." 

I have met some truly wonderful and Christian people in my lifetime, both conservative and liberal.  They were polite enough to stop talking politics when it got to the point where friendships were on the line and kind enough to offer help, advice, charity when it was needed.  No questions asked.

Aaaaand I've been unfortunate to meet the other kind of christian.  The kind that will Bible-thump and preach all day long about how much they love Jesus and the American flag, but will just as soon run over you as let you cross the street before their SUV on a left turn, green lights and pedestrians be damned.*  They are careless in their thoughts and their deeds towards others, and still assume they're destined for heaven because they are Believers.

If hell is paved with good intentions, I don't think that means that heaven is paved with ignorance.  And really, this applies to all religions, but most of my contact with The Arrogant Sect involves christians.  But why do people who claim religiosity, who propose that they are the most pure and holy and god-fearing, why are they usually the ones who treat those outside of their religion with the most contempt, disregard, and disrespect?  This ranges from getting in a non-believer's face, shunning of family members who don't believe, and insisting that Creation and only (one) Creation be taught.

I'm actually all for teaching Creation in school.  It's a large part of what our society and much of our literature and art is based on.  However, I don't think it should be taught in Biology class.  I think religion classes ought to be, if not required, at the very least an elective like Psychology.  It should not focus solely on Christianity, but on the stories and principles of the world's major religions.  Yes, that includes Islam.  I am not implying that this should be taught to young children, but at about the age of 14, I think that students can absorb and disseminate information about other cultures and religions and think for themselves.  

If your argument involves the heathen-izing of good christian children, I would argue that your child's religious faith must already be pretty flimsy, and perhaps they have observed behavior by others of their faith who have not behaved in an appropriate manner.  It is so very easy to lose faith when you see the people who are supposed to be religious leaders going against the tenets of their faith and the words coming out of their own damned mouths.

*I realize that not all chrisitian drive SUVs, and I've met some assholes in Priuses too.

Day 102: A Special Story

Happy 100th* post, everyone!  How awesome is this!  In honor of a special post, my fiance and I will present you with a very special story.  We began telling Rupert the Magical Pony stories in bed.  I had this annoying habit of asking Danny to tell me a story as we drifted off to sleep, and one night he asked me to return the favor.  And thus Rupert the Magical Pony was born.  His first story resulted in visiting the realms of man after encounters with various creatures.  After meeting with man, he ended up in a glue factory.  Other stories involved Rupert having a serious tummy ache and asking a wise donkey for help (he had a hilarious name and I'll be damned if I can remember it).

In any case, these are amazing anecdotes. As I type this my fiance and I are arguing over who told the tummy ache story which ended as a Magical Fart Joke.  He has capitulated and stated, "It was a fart joke and it was you.  Why must you be better at Rupert stories than me?"  First of all, a fart joke is me!  Second, "Because Rupert originated in my sick and twisted mind."  So now I present you with the first ever published Rupert story for you all to enjoy.  If someone provides illustrations I will love you forever.

Rupert the Magical Pony and the Pirate Adventures:

Once upon a time, there was a magical pony field, and in the magical pony field lived  the magical ponies.  One of the Magical Ponies was named Rupert, and he was a Magical Pony.  However, this story does not take place in the Magical Pony Field, but far, far away on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

The ship was not a Magical Pony Ship, but a mean and dirty pirate ship, that was run by mean and dirty pirates.  The mean and dirty pirates had captured Rupert the Magical Pony and his Magical Pony friends when they had decided to go out on their Magical Pony boat for a Magical Pony Adventure.  As the mean and dirty pirates hauled the Magical Ponies on board, they said in their mean and dirty voices, "Yarharhar, we captured Magical Ponies and we can make them slave away for us, and then eat them in a stew when they get too tired and old to work.  Yarharhar."  Rupert and his friends were very sad, and very afraid as they were loaded into the hold of the mean and dirty pirate ship.

The Magical Ponies were tied up and called mean and dirty names by the mean and dirty pirates, that should never ever be repeated by good girls and boys.  This made Rupert and the Magical Ponies even more sad.  The mean and dirty pirates were getting hungry, so they started to talk about carving up one of Rupert's particularly plump friends.  Porto the Plump Magical Pony started to cry.

"No!" Rupert exclaimed, "You can't cry!  We have to find a way to get out of here!"

Porto continued to cry, but as he did so, his Magical Pony Tears of Sadness slowly slipped through the cracks of the mean and dirty pirate ship, where they seeped into the water, where the sharks smelled it.  Now, as everyone knows, Magical Pony Tears smell like cupcakes and rainbows, which is way better than blood.  The sharks smelled the Magical Pony Tears and, through the hull of the ship, asked why the Magical Ponies were crying.  

Rupert replied, "Oh dear shark friends, we are but a small herd of Magical Ponies who have been captured by mean and dirty pirates who are now threatening to carve the plump Porto to eat for their stew.  Will you help us?"

The leader of the sharks, Mr. Scrubbers, replied, "Why yes, Rupert.  As you are a good and magical pony we shall help our new Magical Pony Friends."

So without further fuss, Mr. Scrubbers and his shiver of sharks jumped onto the mean and dirty pirate deck and began to eat aaaalllll the mean and dirty pirates.  When all the decks ran red with the blood of the mean and dirty pirates, the sharks helped their new Magical Pony Friends escape from their chains.  After they cleaned the mean and dirty pirate ship of all its meanness and dirtiness, the sharks and the Magical Ponies played together as they headed back to the Magical Pony Field.

Unfortunately, Mr. Scrubbers and his shark friends soon got hungry.  And everyone knows that Magical Ponies taste like gum drops and babies.  So Rupert and his Magical Pony Friends never saw land again. 

The End.  

If you would like to see more of Rupert the Magical Pony, please comment.  If you would like to never see him again...please comment.  If you think my fiance and I are very special people and deserve some very special treatment, particularly in the form of hospitalization, I won't fight you about that.  Please feel free to set up a fund in our name and we will gladly seek help.

*Oops, apparently this is actually the 102nd post because I somehow mis-numbered posts back in late June.  Crap.  Oh well.

Day 101: Sweet and Vicious

Sweet and Vicious by David Schinkler.  ISBN: 9780385335683.

Well, this is a nice change of pace from The Holy Thief.  Unfortunately it appears to be what we call "airport reading."  Airport reading is what I call novels that are not particularly incriminating in your tastes (aka you can read it in public without being labeled a reader of fruity romance vampire novels), fast paced so you don't find yourself trying to focus on minute plot points while the three-aisles-over toddler's scream is trying to stab your brain into pudding, and despite the fact that there is interesting stuff going on, it still doesn't really seem to matter.*  People who can write these kind of novels astound me.  It really takes some genius to write decent fluff.

Having said all of that, since there's not a whole lot of depth to this novel (at least not 100 of 250 pages in), I'm going to have to write about the obvious today.  The main plot device is a set of seven diamonds fashioned into planets (when they were created Neptune and Pluto, which is no longer a planet anyway, hadn't been discovered).  Anyway, diamonds, they are pretty and sparkly.  I like looking at them.

Other than that.

Meh.

I honestly don't get the appeal of owning/coveting diamonds.  They're nice, it's true.  It's nice to own something that is beautiful and genuinely pleasing to look at.  But you know what, you pay taxes on that every year: it's called a museum.  They house things in it.  And they are pretty.  And you can pay a small fee to go look at them without incurring any of the risks or obligations of ownership (i.e. insurance, restoration, cleaning, etc.).  Hell, sometimes it's even free.

The thing is, diamonds are common.  They are so terribly common that the only reason people still buy diamond engagement rings for exorbitant prices is because diamond companies are so good at marketing.  Also, they price them at "sentimental values." In other words, they're making it up, and the only reason your ring is worth anything is because other people are still willing to pay for it.

Did I get a diamond engagement ring?  No.  Did I want one?  Not really, diamond accents would have been nice, but I'm really happy with my garnet ring.  I don't need diamonds.  I don't need to fill my life with jewelry and sparkly things to enjoy my life.  To be honest, I don't wear jewelry often enough to justify having a wide selection of shiny things to wear.  I sure as hell do love to look at jewelry though.  If it wasn't for the fact that the sales people always try to get me to sign up for a store credit card I would probably spend hours just looking.  There's something in my brain that just screams, "Yay!" when my eyes fill up with glints and glimmers from gemstones and precious metals.  But there's no way I'm paying a major car repair fee to take that chunk of shimmering coal home with me.

Besides, there are plenty of local craftsmen who work in sterling silver and other metals who need the money more than big diamond/jewelry companies.  I'm just sayin', is it really the diamond that makes your engagement ring special?

* I am terribly sorry about the Faulkner sentence.  At least there's some punctuation in there.

Day 100: The Holy Thief

The Holy Thief by William Ryan.  ISBN: 9780312586454 (advanced reader copy).

Yay!  I finished this early!  Of course...when I realized I wasn't particularly enjoying the prose or the wild ride of bureaucratic bullshit I started skimming, so that helped.  Let's just say, that finishing this on the 4th of July was a little taste of freedom.  And while we're at it, let's talk about the uniforms that defend our freedoms.

Korolev, our fearless Soviet hero, does not like wearing his uniform because it prevents people from talking to him.  Since he is the Soviet version of an investigative policeman, he needs information from them, and steel traps don't do a lot of talking.  I will admit, uniforms make me damned nervous.  I'm typically a law abiding citizen, although I've been known to go over the speed limit or be a little lazy with my "stops" at stop signs (I learned to drive from my mother in her 1995 Ford Mustang if you're curious).  So why is it that I am genuinely frightened of being arrested, detained, questioned, or otherwise harassed by policemen?

Probably because they are the only identifiable predator that is left in our society.  And I'm referring to predator as in Sharks and Bears and Bats-to-the-Face, oh my.  Let's face it, there aren't a whole lot of natural predators running around taking down the slow and the weak.  Instead we have uniformed people removing the criminal, the violent, the desperate, the poor, and (what I hope is infrequently) the unlucky.  This is not to say that I don't respect police officers and the job they do.  I've even been known to shake hands with an officer who gives me a speeding ticket.  That doesn't mean I trust every cop not to hurt me.  They are people, and they are people with a certain amount of power over me by the very nature of their job and their training (I don't know many people paid to be proficient with deadly force).

On another level, military uniforms don't freak me out nearly so much.  Probably because the military are mostly designed to combat foreign threats, whereas I, theoretically, am a domestic threat.  The chances of me being arrested and detained by someone wearing camos or a dress blues/greens/whatevers is very slim...unless they find out I've been selling information* to Russia, which I haven't.  I'm a librarian, I gave it to them for free, duh.

Of course, another reason is my mother wore a military uniform for 20 years of my life, so one might say it's pretty familiar to me.  Maybe if I had grown up as a cop's daughter it wouldn't freak me out so much, but I would still probably hate him for running off my boyfriends.  Damn you, imaginary cop-dad...that could so be a sitcom, call me NBC.**

Crap, I half forgot where I was going with this.***  Basically what I'm saying is, police make me nervous.  Police should make me nervous, they should make everyone nervous.  Not because you've done something wrong, but because they only protect us as long as we let them protect us, rather than dictating our behavior.  Vigilance is needed in democracy, even a democracy like ours...perhaps especially in a democracy like ours.  It would be so easy to have liberties taken away from us: papers being checked, people being rounded up, library records checked.  I encourage everyone to question what any authority figure is doing and why they're doing it.  If they tell you to sit down and shut up, it's already too late.

*Seriously, I haven't been selling information to Russia.  On the other hand if the economy doesn't turn around...  Gotta feed the family (which is totally not the Italian Mafia).
**What? You're going to run yet another Law and Order spin-off, but the smash hit Copping Out doesn't strike your interest?  Screw you, I'll let Fox buy the rights.
***I apparently need to write more blog posts after having a beer and before fireworks, I think the anticipation of burnt gunpowder does funny things to my brain waves.

Day 99: The Holy Thief

The Holy Thief by William Ryan.  ISBN: 9780312586454 (advanced reader copy).

I do not get the appeal of murder mysteries.  I really don't.  It's unfortunate since there's such a large readership and it would be a great benefit to me if I enjoyed them as far as my reader's advisory skills are concerned.  But they don't seem to be anything special to me.

The thing that seems to annoy me about them the most is that they focus completely on the mystery...that they can't talk about until the big reveal at the end.  So you have a story that tries to successfully write around the whole point of the story without giving too much away.  That would be like your doctor telling you there's something wrong with your stomach, but he's only giving you symptoms and effects without telling you the name of it.  I'm sure there are some fairly benign stomach conditions that have horrific sounding symptoms (which you may or may not develop), but if you know it's just irritable bowel it's something you're familiar with and is less concerning.  But seriously, if you had a doctor talk to you that way, you'd be pissed off, right?

Well, in this case the authority figure is the writer and not a doctor, and he's god damned jerking me around and not getting to the ailment.  I get it, the symptom is a dead and tortured body and the cure is slogging through bureaucratic bullshit and running from crime scene to crime scene, but honestly I don't care.  The fact is that most mysteries I've read focus so much on the thing they can't talk about that they strip down (or never build up) their characters.

Think about how many mystery novels you've read, particularly involving men as the main character, where there is a family, but they're not in the picture due to a recent divorce/separation/horrific car accident.  Strangely authors do this to humanize the Hero, but it really just makes him more of a cardboard cutout.  We don't get to see his interactions with his family, or really with anyone outside of his work and brief acquaintances.  This makes for boring reading in my opinion.  I want to read about a person, not an action figure being pushed around in a dark room.

So if we can't be told what's going on and we get crappy character development, what the hell are we left with?  Well, occasionally the details of the crime and how they're pieced together can be interesting. Uunfortunately, most of what we're treated to is disgusting descriptions of bodies and how they were tortured and killed.  I'm sure there is a crowd of people that revels in this...but I just don't get it.  Even the most bloody of crimes being described gets boring.  Your brain will refuse to picture (or even see) anything too distressing unless you force it to...so that leaves you with slogging through the bureaucracy that is always involved in these stories.

Gee, that sounds like work to me.

And yet, I keep reading them and signing up to read them in the hopes that I will one day read a mystery with good pacing that is not afraid to write about The Big Secret when it's necessary, and gives me something more than plasticine portraits to enjoy.

*This is not a problem specifically with The Holy Thief, although I have encountered quite a few of the problems in this novel.  I am more concerned with the genre, and I do recognize that there are probably exceptional novels in the genre...but I'll be damned if I can name one that I've read.

Day 98: Half Broken Things

Half Broken Things by Morag Joss. ISBN: 9780385339407.

As the story progresses, Jean and her compatriots become more duplicitous in their maintenance of the Walden Manor* lifestyle.  At one point they run out of heating oil and Michael learns to fake the owner's voice while Steph fakes his signature.  (Michael is Jean's make-believe son to go along with her make-believe lifestyle).  As Steph is figuring out the signature it describes the loops and whirls and how the owner gave up on making the non-initials legible.

I have to admit that I find signatures fascinating.  It took me years to perfect my signature.  I don't plan on changing it anytime soon, and I actually swore that I would never change my last name if it meant changing my signature.  It probably sounds like a stupid thing to be so pleased with, but a signature is a very important thing.  Many times it's the only indication of your personality on forms, business letters, etc.  Sure, there might be a little personality in a business letter based on your writing style, but for the most part it's the same damn letter you write to almost everyone and a copy is a copy is a copy is a copy.  But then there's that little flourish at the end where you get to dump the New Roman Times and feel the satisfying flick of ink on paper.

I love signing my name.  If I'm stuck in a meeting or bored, I will endlessly practice my signature.  I secretly hope to be famous someday so people actually ask me to sign things and then cherish my signature as much as I do.  Yeah, okay, it's weird, but at least I don't dress up as a giant cartoon character in order to get "positive" attention after leaving my parents' basement for the first time in three months.

I first started working on my signature probably in fourth grade, when my favorite teacher showed me an alternate way of writing cursive A's.  Instead of making roundy-apple A's, for my signature I use a peaked-swoopy A and cross it like you would a "t."  I then use the cross bar to sign the rest of MY first name (hahah, get it, my?  A...my.  It's mine, you cannot has).  Meanwhile when I was making the A I started it off with a curl that forms a C and that's where my last name goes, arcing up along the left side of the A.

And just so you know what the hell I'm talking about, I think I'll "sign" this post.  Although...it's an old signature, so no forgeries for you.

*This is the name of the house Jean is taking care of.

Day 97: Half Broken Things

Half Broken Things by Morag Joss.  ISBN: 9780385339407.

Jean, who is one of the main characters is a professional house sitter.  I, too, have had my stints as a house sitter.  Jean eventually recreates her personality to fit the house to the point where she brings in an entire new family to fill the house with.  I can definitely relate to throwing on a personality to match the house you're living in...up to a certain point.  For instance, in order to sustain the sham I would never sell someone else's stuff just so I could use the house like it's my own.

But there are homes where you become more comfortable than others, either as a guest, a house sitter, or just in your imagination.  Some places just have more personality that draw you in and make you change the way you think about things.  I was recently able to stay in such a place, although the people definitely helped me throw on my borrowed identity.

During my conference in Washington, DC (that would be the American Library Association Conference), I was able to stay, and leave my car, with the parents of my college room mate in Maryland.  On Friday they dropped me off at the Shady Grove Metro station and I rode the rails into town with my awkward luggage, rather than spending whatever ridiculous price they're charging for parking.

In any case, their house is a large two story with basement.  They have four bedrooms and at least 3.5 baths.  It is a gorgeous house, it is well-kept, but also lived in.  There is clutter in the office, the bookshelves have skewed books (indicating frequent use), and it is not unheard of to find stray bits of dropped food between moppings on the kitchen floor.  This is not to imply that the house is dirty, simply that its occupants are more interested in living than keeping a pristine property.  It is a house that encourages familiarity and ease, and one can tell by stepping into it that the owners encourage the same.

So it was easy for me to stay in their home, and feel that I would want for nothing -- that I would be taken care of.  And I was.  They are just that kind of people, to the point where they even took my car in for an oil change (and new floor mats and windshield wipers and a tank of gas!).  It is never something I would have asked them to do for me, or even thought that they would have done for me.  It has become somewhat expected, because they are kind and generous people.  They have the money to do things like this for me, and they like having someone to care for now that Matthew is gone.

I know I started talking about houses and went on to people.  But Matthew's parents are the kind of people who bring that "sense of place" with them.  Wherever they go, they will create a feeling of ease, comfort, and of being taken care of.  I don't use this word frequently, but I am truly blessed to have them in my life.  I hope everyone knows at least one person like them.

Day 96: ALA 2010 Report

Oh my goodness, what a world wind adventure that was!  I would do the ALA conference again in a heartbeat.  I also want to welcome any new potential readers who had my business cards foisted upon them.  I hope you've had a chance to read through the archives here and there.  I hope you'll continue to read this project.

I have so many books added to my list from publisher catalogs, reader advisory meetings, the Best Of sessions, and best of all: freebies!  I think I did really well on grabbing free books considering it was my first ALA, so go me.  I'm not going to bother listing everything I nabbed here in the blog post, but if you're curious, go to my Goodreads account and click on the ALA-2010 tag (or click here).  At the moment I don't have the ARCs and freebies that I grabbed on the list because that would involve unpacking and repacking my suitcase.  But I will end up having about 200 books to-read and/or To Read.*  The only thing that could make this better is if someone magically paid my way to go to BEA next year.

I want to tell you about everything I did, but I get the feeling you don't read my blog for my personal experiences so much as my thoughts and reflections, so I'll just tell you a couple of the highlights.

Speakers I went to included the fabulous and amazing Toni Morrison; Nancy Pearl's tear jerking interview with Mary McDonagh, who is writing about and filming and documentary about To Kill a Mockingbird; Dave Isay talked about Story Corps, which made my nerdy historian heart beat a little faster.  Sadly I missed Sir Salman Rushdie in favor of going to a session on the future of book reviewing.  This made me sad because the session couldn't have possibly been as good as Rushdie, and I had read articles regarding book reviewing that pretty much said the same thing as the guest panel.  Sad face.  I was trying to be a good blogger, and this is what it got me.

I went to quite a few different Book sessions about upcoming stuff that deserves Some Attention.  Topics included a nomination process for YALSA's Best of Young Adult Fiction (I was fascinated by the process and how they talked about the books), the Best of University Press (it was taped by CSPAN, so I might've shown up on TV!), and editors'/publishers' favorite upcoming books (hosted by Nancy Pearl.

Speaking of Nancy Pearl, it seems like I couldn't get away from the woman at the conference.  Not that she is a person anyone would want to get away from.  She is seriously the nicest person I have ever met and ever so deserving to become an action figure.  She also happened to show up at the Unshelved booth while I was there, so I got my picture taken with Gene Ambaum, Bill Barnes, AND Nancy Pearl.  It totally made my conference, here's the picture:

From A Librarian's Life in Books

I have to admit, we are incredibly adorable in this picture, all of us.  And this came at a point where I very much needed a boost in energy...  Shortly after that I also got my picture taken with a Storm Trooper, a very short Darth Maul, Empire officers, and other Empire bads.  This was taken with someone else's camera and he said he'd let me know when it's ready.  I went total fan-girl...it was slightly embarassing...there may have been a little bit of Derp-ing going on.  Yeah, not even I knew I was that big of a geek until that moment, and I could.not.stop.myself.

There was some good eating when I was able to escape the programming early enough in the evening.  I went to a Dim Sum place called Ping Pong, there was the Korean place Mandu's, and uh, an Indian restaurant in Chinatown that I was too damned tired to remember the name of.

Also...I joined Twitter.  Finally.  It's all Gene Ambaum's fault when he said he was going to Tweet our photo and he linked to my blog!  See!  Librarians=awesome.  Anyway, I'm @libs_lib.  Get it?  I'm a librarian's librarian, but it's also Lib(rarian')s L(ife) I(n) B(ooks).  Shut up, I'm clever.  Now to get back to recovering and normally blog posty things.



*As in actual copies of the books.

Day 95: Marybeth Cieplinski (guest blogger)

Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman. ISBN: 9780380789023.

Making my way through Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors I came across the prose poem called "Virus."*  In it, the protagonist gets hooked on a video game.  He spends more and more time playing, neglecting everything else in his life.  I actually chuckled.  It reminded me of my sons and their single-minded focus on beating the next level or the "big boss," postponing meals until they can pause whatever game they're playing.  The poem was a familiar, yet extreme, interpretation of the gamer's mindset.  I laughed and put it out of my head.  Until I was walking home from campus one day and watched as a driver talking on a cell phone made a left-hand turn from the middle lane while the light was red.  That's when I realized the gaming obsession in the poem only gives us a tiny glimpse at a much bigger problem--our escalating obsession with technology.

I expect this is going to end up sounding like a rant against technology.  It's not that I hate technology.  I don't.  I own a computer.  I love my computer.  I built it myself from tenderly chosen components that were then delicately installed to create the perfect system, catering to my own wants.  In fact, I like my computer so much I won't share it.  So we have three desktop systems, one apiece for my sons, and one for me.  And four laptops.  That seems a bit excessive, but really it's no worse than the desktops.  One laptop has died but is lovingly preserved by the previous owner.  One works as long as it's sitting on a cooling pad--until its old bones get tired and it trundles off to sleep with its figurative thumb in its mouth.  The third laptop has been wiped of the last owner's files and now lives inside a cupboard.  Why?  It's not mine anymore so I don't know.  The last laptop IS mine (it's shiny! and red!) and it goes with me anywhere that I might need it for taking notes or writing or sharing lurid videos with fellow students.  Carpal tunnel syndrome has disabled my hands to the point where I can no longer hold a pen for more than a few minutes, so the laptop has become like an extension of my arm.  I know that's no excuse for my co-dependency but it's certainly a reason. 

I keep thinking about surgery to help my hands, but that just reminds me how doctor offices contribute to (and count on) our obsession with technology.  When was the last time you talked on the phone to someone in a doctor's office, other than to make an appointment?  I'm betting you can't remember because these days, you have to "leave your name, number and a detailed message, and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."  That's nice.  I appreciate the sentiment.  I'm glad you'll get back to me.  But why can't I talk to someone now?  What if I'm not home when you call?  Then you'll have to leave a message, and I'll have to call back and leave another message, and then maybe I won't be home when you answer that message --  Wait.  What?  You want me to leave my cell phone number?  Umm, sorry.  Only my family has my cell number.  That way, if the phone rings or I get a text message, I know it's either one of my children with a question more vital than "What's for dinner?" or it's my cell phone provider.  (TracPhone is terrified I'm going to miss out on a deal that will give me more minutes than I'll ever use before the Earth falls into the sun so I get two emails along with the text message.  But that's another rant.) 

Since when did we need to be accessible by phone at every moment of the day or night?  When did cell phones go from being something people carried in case of emergency to a physical implant (think Bluetooth)?  Back in the day, if someone wasn't home when you called, you kept calling until they were home.  After a few decades of missed calls, answering machines made it possible to leave a message if the matter was urgent.  If you weren't home when they called back, THEY left a message.  You could end up playing Phone Tag for a while if both people led busy lives, but you eventually connected up and got your business done.  Today there's an expectation that everyone has a cell phone, they will provide the number to anyone they brush against in life, and when it rings, they'll answer it no matter where they are or what they're doing.  I no longer can be sure whether the woman in the bathroom stall next to me is talking to me, talking to herself, or on the  phone.  WHY would anyone talk to someone else on the phone while they pee?  Would it be considered more rude to refrain from answering until the job is done?  Not in my zip code, it wouldn't!

This is our own fault, you know.  We (the societal "we") keep demanding technology that does more than what it was originally designed to do.  I want my phone to make calls.  That's it!  I want my computer to surf the web.  That's it!  I don't want to surf the net on my phone, or make calls on my computer.  I like knowing that when I pick up my phone, I won't have to wonder what I was planning to do with it.  (Yeah, my memory is getting that bad, so shut up.)  Granted, cell phones are extremely portable, but they're also very small and thus also extremely hard for some people with bad eyesight (raises hand) to see the images, not to mention much easier to lose or damage.  If the camera in your phone breaks, what do you do?  You don't get it fixed: you buy another phone.  The phone company loves this, which is why these days, phones take pictures and videos, send email, surf the internet, allow you to read books on the screen, and are probably in development to cook, clean and wipe your ass.  This used to be known as "putting all your eggs in one basket."  Planned obsolescence is all about more money for the technology companies and less for us.  Which is why I still use TracPhone.  If my phone breaks or I lose it, all I've lost is a phone.  And I can always make calls with my computer if I have to.

Marybeth Cieplinski is what colleges euphemistically call a "non-traditional student," meaning she's next to older than dirt and still hasn't finished her BA.  That will hopefully happen in either December or next May, depending on what she can do about the one lit class they just cancelled for fall.  Her plans include writing a scholarly investigation of Zorro and actually getting her grad school portfolio together before the deadline.  She loves to write about almost anything but doesn't know when to stop.

*If this sounds familiar, it's because it is.  I wrote my own blog post about "Virus."

Day 94: Kyle B. (guest blogger)

I’ll Scream Later by Marlee Matlin. ISBN: 9781439102855.

Let’s talk about labels for a little bit. One of the themes of Matlin’s life is her constant struggle to deal with the Deaf/deaf community. She routinely gets praised for her work furthering Deaf causes and helping deaf kids to avoid being victimized by the hearing world around them, but then is shunned because she does acting work as a hearing woman. Even being profoundly deaf, the fact that she doesn’t follow the same “guidelines” as other Deaf people gets her a lot of punishment.

I can sympathize with Matlin on a couple levels. I was born half deaf, which is about as natural an introduction as you can get into deaf culture. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time researching being deaf, reading articles and interacting anywhere I could. I took sign language courses through college and even got involved with a couple Deaf groups around campus and regionally.

The problem was that I was never “Deaf” enough to fit in with the rest of the group. When I was at gatherings, people would sign too quickly, or use signs I didn’t know, and they didn’t want to bother with explaining it because I didn’t need it, I could hear. I know it seems bizarre, but Deaf culture is a very proud thing in a lot of ways. Some Deaf people feel that they are the only handicapped that can still interact with the world in every way anyone else can, with the exception of hearing; even so, you can replace that with sight and feel the same in a lot of cases. It’s restricting a bit, but being able to support yourself in a world not built for you is a source of pride, for some. Thus, Deaf as a group, and not just a word.

I could never fit in with these groups. I was half hearing, but I was still deaf, just not capitalized. I wasn’t involved when there were jokes to be told, but when a Deaf issue was brought up, people expected me to march along with them. I had different social ideas, I guess, and that kept me from being as much a part of that group as I might’ve liked.

I have similar problems with being gay. Even though I’m definitely gay, I just don’t fit in with a lot of gay people I’ve known, almost to the point that I’ve nearly gotten into fights over things. I’m not “straight-acting” or “flaming,” because neither of those things should even exist. I am a regular guy who hangs out at his apartment in a t-shirt and shorts. There is unfolded laundry on my bedroom floor and I eat some frozen food. I am not a snappy dresser and I dislike that musical TV show (you know the one). There’s some gay stuff that I do get into, but for the most part I am just a man who loves his boyfriend. Heck, I’ve even made a couple political decisions with some weight on gay rights policies here in Ohio, where we’ve managed to make it a big issue annually for what seems like at least two administrations. I may not be all the way out all the time, but I walk close enough to my boyfriend to get us called “fags” pretty regularly.

The area where I get in trouble is where the group disconnects with the thoughts of an individual. I’ve had gay guys tell me that I’m not proud of who I am because I wouldn’t just sign a petition simply after reading the phrase “gay rights” at the top. I’m totally for gay rights – can’t I also be for rationally considering what I support? Also, people will take you a lot less seriously as a real force for change when you’re wearing a harness, shorts, and nothing else, friend.

I get the idea of what labels are supposed to do sociologically, and it can be an important part of a society. It’s just that, even though I am so many things, I can be none of them – and so much more.

 


Kyle B. is some guy you've never heard of, but he's okay with that. He's a writer and journalist (also both a lover and fighter) that graduated from Kent State University a few years ago, with some slight gainful employment since. He loves to read but pretty much puts a new book back on the shelf if a couple of the first words on the jacket are "murder mystery" or "romance."