Yay for Libraries

I counted my 2005 book list last week and discovered that of the twenty books I've read this year, I procured eighteen from the library. The two I purchased were 1) Fight Club, which no library in the interlibrary loan system owned. I'm not sure why a copy of Fight Club is so hard to come by in my county. The system has three copies of the film, two on DVD and one on VHS, but no copies of the novel. Maybe all the librarians figured someone else was going to pick up a copy, like boys who never ask out the pretty girl because they assume she already has a date. 2) No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy. I'm a huge McCarthy fan. I checked the mailbox every day, after I got the Amazon "item shipped" e-mail, like a five year old waiting for a decoder ring. I also felt obligated to own that book, and I found the twelve person line for a library copy unacceptable.

So that leaves eighteen books for which I haven't paid but read in their entirety. You could probably split them in half by "available in hardcover only/available in paperback" categories. Separating out the very cheap (maybe seven, eight buck paperbacks) by the very expensive (maybe thirty buck hardcover), you could go with, say, eighteen dollars a book. Eighteen times eighteen is... I have saved enough money to buy eight tanks of gas because my local and federal government is willing to lend me books for free. How cool is that? Allow me to reflect on libraries a bit.

* I was not always a library adult. On the other hand, I was a consistent library middle and high schooler. My parents gave me permission, probably to get me the hell out of the house, to visit my local library on weeknights through middle and high school. I walked the half mile to the Chicago Public Library Roden branch, on Northwest Highway, a couple nights a week. The adult section of the library contained maybe four or five shelves, about ten feet long each, with a slightly longer stretch along the wall. Most of the books were way over my head and covered in dust. Twin spinning carousels carried what I remember as romance novels and self-help books. I sat near the window, if I could, and felt the cold through the glass as I read. I would stay until closing then half-run home under the starlit trees.

* I spent a lot of time in the libraries of the sundry and various institutions of higher learning cursed with the misfortune of my attendance. I commuted, except for one semester in central Illinois, so the library became a place where I could hang out between classes until I discovered the campus radio station. Even at ISU, where I lived for one long, lonely spring semester, I used the library as an acceptable location for my isolation. I mean, I looked less desperate, perhaps more romantic, and, at least, studious (which I was, honestly, since I had nothing else to do, since no one would talk with me) in a library cubicle than, say, at a lone table in a student union.

* My library use tapered off, save for academic responsibilities associated with graduate school, in my twenties. I lived in a neighborhood rife with used bookstores. Also, since I had my own apartment for the first time, I grew enamored with the visual of a shelf stacked with books, even if I hadn't read all of the displayed titles. I was more or less destitute, sure, but I could usually scrape together enough change for torn-up paperbacks and the occasional classic. Plus, I gave up the clean, cool libraries for the used bookstore's smell of decay. Since I had an apartment, and I didn't need to avoid my parents, I could read on my own couch without interruption from my naggy mother or tv obsessed dad.

At the same time I became a grad assistant for an insane Egyptian professor who sent me to the library about even twelve seconds to look up obscure articles on reading theory. I owe that man quite a bit because I grew, through his insanity, to love research. He also expected me to approach library research with the tenacity of a sex addict in Las Vegas. I mean, I took a perverse pride in my time in the musty academic stacks.

Music brought me back to the library. My friend Dan started burning discs he procured from his Illinois library, and on a lark, I logged onto the local library website and walked through the search function. I don't know if I was surprised, but the inter-library loan system had an absolute ton of interesting discs and hardly anyone seemed to be in line for most of them. I burned the latest from the Shins, Bright Eyes, Death Cab, etc., and went back in the catalog for about a hundred others. In fact, I think I personally am responsible for more copyright violations than a dorm room back in the napster days. I apologize, publicly, if I did anything illegal by copying library CDs. I'm fairly sure I did. I promise I never sold my copies, at least, so ask the judge to go easy on me.

My current library is decent. Now, it's not too huge, but the inter-library loan system covers most of the supply. I track down books or discs I want, I push a few buttons on my computer, and, a couple of days later, the materials show up behind the counter. Plus, the library has huge low shelf to ceiling windows across its south, east, and west walls. When the fall arrives, and I'm sitting in a corner, with a book, I'm not far removed from the kid at the Roden branch back in Chicago.

Now, I used to be one of those guys who had to own every book I read. I wrote in the margins and took pride in the length of my shelves. I'm not sure what happened to that guy. Maybe I grew up a few years, because I don't care all that much about people knowing what I read (although my later post about my reading this year will make that sound like bullshit). I can get books for free. And most of the time the ladies who work behind the counter are nice to me. So...in a phrase...yay libraries. I'm glad you're here, and I hope to grow old championing your services.

So What Have You Been Listening To Lately, Randomanthony?

Why, I’m so glad you asked.

I’ve resisted placing reviews, recommendations, etc. in this space because, frankly, I don’t want to argue. I’ve seen enough posting boards on which people will fight passionately about the proper way to water orchids or the meaning of Godzilla’s grimace or how much cooler one perverts version of Sue Storm’s leather bodysuit was than another’s. And I don’t care. I believe that ninety percent of the time the only people who give a rat’s ass about online altercations are the involved parties. In turn, I don’t want to start any little tiffs on my own. Ok? I’m writing about what’s been in my car CD player (still not an Ipod, I’m over thirty and backwards, sue me) because the music is taking up space in my brain I’d like freed up.

Ok, here we go:

Eels-Blinking Lights and Other Revelations: This is my favorite CD (actually, two CDS) of the last year or so. I find myself wondering how I managed to avoid discovering this guy’s (I forget his name…Mark something?) work for the past ten years, and I haven’t felt that way since I bought “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” and felt like an idiot for growing up in Chicago and never stumbling upon either Wilco or Uncle Tupelo. I thought myself quite the hipster, too. Anyway, These two CDs feature some of the most hummable, personal songs you can get from a guy who sounds depressed and hopeful all at once. He probably could have released a one disc classic, rather than package both discs at once, but hey, when I can listen to a double album without getting all Tourettes on my car CD changer button, I can’t complain.

Bright Eyes-Digital Ash for a Digital Urn: Now, I hated that acoustic one (I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, I think it was called), but this disc is ok. I listen to the first five or six songs a lot. I suppose Mr. Oberst (he’s sooo cute!) should be warned about writing explicitly about college (referring to incompletes and skipping class) but then again, when you’re in your early twenties, you’re kind of stupid, so he can be forgiven. I get the feeling Mr. Oberst listened to a lot of “Ashes to Ashes” era Bowie and maybe some Tubeway Army when he was a teenager. He doesn’t embarrass those influences at all.

The Bangles-Greatest Hits: When my hippy brother and I shared a room, in our teens, we had, alas, only one turntable between us. I sure as hell wasn’t listening to Crosby, Still, and Nash (Die! Die!), and he wasn’t up for Black Flag. We compromised by playing three bands over and over again. We both liked The Ramones and Talking Heads. We also found common ground in The Bangles’ “All Over The Place”. I recently burned a copy of The Bangles “Greatest Hits” from my local library. The Bangles’ early material seems to hold up well.

My Dad is Dead- Shine(r): I was just in Chicago last weekend when I found out that MDID played their first live shows in something like eight years while I was in town. While I’m too lazy to show up at the Elbo Room at Midnight, my friend Sean, in honor of the show, played “Let’s Skip The Details” in his apartment while we got drunk. I forgot how good these guys were. When I returned home I dug around in my basement and found the “Shine(r)” disc. “Babe in the Woods” and “Nothing Special” are two great songs, and the rest of the CD is strong as well. I’d love to get “The Taller You Are, The Shorter You Get”, but I can’t find it on Ebay, Amazon, anywhere. I might try to download it directly from the MDID site.

The Streets-A Grand Don’t Come For Free: I wish more American white guys would listen to The Streets. I can’t guarantee this, because I don’t read music magazines, but I get the feeling that English rappers don’t care as much as American rappers about looking like you’re hard or nailing bitches. As much as I love Eminem, I’m afraid no white rapper will emerge for the next decade who didn’t live in a trailer park and beat his wife. It’s a shame, really, because this Streets guy put out a solid song cycle (almost a concept album, even) about losing a thousand dollars, hooking up with a girl, breaking up with a girl, and doing a lot of drugs. The relationship songs are great, esp. “Rope You In” and the one near the end where he tries to get back with his girlfriend but she blows him off. This record is as close to punk rock as I’ve heard white rap get.

Ok, that’s it for now. More soon.

My Thoughts on the Glory of Pick-Up Basketball

I am never so calm as during the moments just before the start of a pick-up basketball game. If I'm on defense, I either move to the natural match for my skills (almost always someone I've covered half a million times before) or I spread out to the perimeter and let my defender (that same guy) find me. If bad or uncertain match-ups are present I negotiate with my teammates or listen to the other team walk through their own negotiations. On the rare occasion someone new walks on the floor, I introduce myself and size up my competition in the friendliest manner possible. I'm not out to hurt anyone. I just want to play basketball.

Pick-up basketball has provided me with some of the most poetic, beautiful moments of my life. I am not exaggerating. When I lie in my bed at night, or daydream through a meeting, I'm not thinking of that girl who won the dance contest on television or running enrollment figures for next semester. I'm re-running this morning's fast break. I'm considering whether or not, had I dribbled another step, I could have bounced a pass into Doug for a layup. I thinking of whether or not Steve's hot streak on the baseline will extend to next Tuesday's game. I'm creating mental poetry from the interactions of a group of scruffy, mostly middled aged and out of shape men who show up at the YMCA early in the morning to play hoops.

My pick-up basketball devotion emerged early. In fourth and fifth grade I walked through all kinds of weather to hook up with friends at Oriole Park, back then a new and sanitized gym with a gleaming wood floor, for Saturday morning games. We were awful, half-court specialists in jeans and old shoes (I don't remember a locker room). Later in middle school we moved to Rosedale Park, a proper Chicago Park System building bathed in the smell of sweat and leather. Rosedale gym left approximately six inches breathing room on the court's perimeter so, if you weren't careful, you became well acquainted with the room's brick wall. At Rosedale we got a little better, more competitive, good enough to at least ride the bench on our Catholic grade school teams.

I spent most of high school smoking pot and having sex. Despite this window of non-sports activity, I can't complain.

I don't remember exactly when in college the gym's siren call returned. Northeastern Illinois University had a brand new athletic building, back in the early nineties, and some officials at NEIU were anxious for athletic success. The space was huge, four or five courts across, and open, at least in theory, to students. The scholarship athletes and their attendants tolerated the presence of a small group of gym rats as long as we stayed out of the way of official teams. We'd play Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after class or work from four to six or six-thirty. The rules were clear. Each game ended when a team hit 32 points counting by twos and threes. Call your own fouls. Don't be a pussy.

I made some good friends at the pick-up games. I mean, if you come three times a week for a year (and devotion is prized in pick-up hoops), you're bound to get to know people. I met Jimmy, an absolutely insane three point specialist who claimed to have starred in the Greek leagues. Jerry, a thin, muscular intellectual, and Jimmy's crossfire-esque sparring partner, was next. Mike, a friendly, lumbering center/guidance counselor completed our foursome. We'd pick up another player, set our five, and hit the floor. Chances are we knew our opponenents as well as they knew us. They (and we) knew Jimmy was relentless from the perimeter but an absolutely shitty defender. Jerry was lightning quick but worried, vocally, about Jimmy's defense. Mike wouldn't miss from six or seven feet out. I had no jumper but played the utility/rebound/assist role pretty well. Someday, in my mind, when I'm in the old folk's home, I will replay snapping passes to Jimmy in the corner for stray threes. I do it now in staff meetings and conversations with my wife. I haven't played at NEIU for eight years, and offensive sequences still unfold in my daydreams.

The Northeastern games were not faultless. Fights broke out more often than not. Smartass kids would sneak in the side doors and fuck up the culture. I heard, after I moved, that campus security got involved more every year. A pick-up game that can't police its own is bound to wither. Still...Joon, the tiny Asian with the killer baseline range (and Jimmy's sworn enemy), Jan, the quick-handed Mexican, Ron, the grizzled veteran with the questionable ethics, I miss you all.

I didn't find a decent Wisconsin game for about two years. I finally worked myself into Monday night YMCA games, loose, no-defense contests populated by a curious mix of teenagers, their fathers, and gym rats who rotated from floor to floor on any given evening. One of the rats asked if I wanted to play early in the morning, say, 6AM, with a group of older guys. Now, I usually showed up at work by about six, six-thirty, but I was sick of my job at that point, so the choice was easy. I played for an hour every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for about four years. The games were much more gentlemanly (pick-up basketball is the true gentleman's sport, by the way, not dumbass golf). The games ran to seven by ones. Everyone brought white and dark shirts for team distinction and politely rotated in and out if more than ten men were present. I loved these games. I was eventually asked to play for a couple of fine men's league teams, through my early morning contacts, but I loved pick-up and dreaded the men's league. Why did I need a ref and territorial/testosterone driven pissing to mess up my groove? Put a shirt purchased by a sponsoring bar on a group of guys and suddenly the game becomes deadly serious.

Again, these games weren't faultless. A couple of guys were psycho-competitive (a requirement at just about any gym) and started physical altercations. At the YMCA. At six in the goddamn morning. This particular pick-up culture, however, ejected bitchy players without much difficulty by freezing them out and glaring at the offenders during water breaks. Still, no game can last forever, and I believe the M-W-F 6AM group is on its last leg. In fact, it's the W-F group now. Monday's are a distant memory. Too many guys have moved out of state, had kids, etc., to support getting up that early only to find you've got three that day. There is nothing worse than showing up at the gym at 6AM and not having enough guys for a game.

I've transitioned to an even more gentlemanly group of guys who play at the same floor on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7AM. We 6AMers used to refer to the T/TH group as the "B Team". The guys aren't as good as the M/W/F group, but at least they show up. My jumper has improved, but I've learned to play closer to the basket and lean on my strengths. You learn a lot about yourself in pick-up basketball. You learn to either be the guy who sits out a game so no one else has to sit or become the guy who plays every minute of every game but looks like a prick. You learn where you are, emotionally, on any given day. If you're wired, upset, or depressed, your mood is going to leak into your play more likely than not. I've had exactly two altercations in all my years of pick-up. I probably could have predicted both based on my emotional state. You learn, hopefully, how to gauge whether or not the guy goading you is worth your time. You listen to your varied colleagues and take in their stories. That guy, that new guy with the baseball hat, is getting married next May. Donnie broke his hand playing tennis and won't be back for a couple months, at least that's what Tony heard. I saw Steve on his bike this weekend and he said the same thing. Rob's fishing in Oklahoma. In other words, you become part of the culture, mostly a male culture (although women are almost always welcome and respected on the court and admired as they walk past the gym windows on the way to the cardio room), for a couple of hours every week. How valuable is that?

My knees are starting to give (might write about that in the near future), but I know guys who are playing in their early fifties. I hope I last that long. Any game could be my last, I know, but I can count the games I regret on one hand, and I can feel the gym buzz the second I walk out the door in the dawn light and cross my yard on the way to my car. Even if I can't play, even if the doctors tell me my knee is never going to recover, I feel lucky. I've got years of games cataloged in my mind. No wonder I don't mind meetings.

Deconstructing the NY Times "Havens" feature on Aug. 19, 2005

Every Friday the NY Times has a "Havens" feature in the "Escapes" section. The writer of the "Havens" feature interviews someone who lives in a house/condo/apartment near something unusual, or at least unusual to most New Yorkers (e.g. "houses near animal sanctuaries", or "apartments right outside ski lifts"). "Havens" then describes five houses for sale in that particular week's category.

I hate "Havens". The interviews star privileged, affluent folks bragging about their supposedly perfect lives. Of course, the interviewees can't come out and say "worship me and my existence" so they cloak their true messages in their comments about their locales. Below, as a public service, I deconstruct the August 19, 2005 "Havens" feature, or "Houses Near Kayaking Destinations" so you can understand the subtexts. My comments are in CAPS.

Who: Gary Fleener, 41, a college professor from Elsah, ILL, shown on land he owns near the Arkansas River.
Where: Salida, Colo.

WHAT THIS MEANS: I TEACH IN THE MIDWEST, BUT I WOULD SELL MY LEFT BALL AND MY UNBORN CHILD FOR A TENURE TRACK POSITION AT THE UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO, BOULDER.

I started coming to this area as a kid at summer camp, and I've been paddling and rafting out here for the last seventeen years. Most of my kayaking experience has been right here along the Arkansas River.

WHAT THIS MEANS: I AM FROM SOMEWHERE UNGLAMOROUS, AND I WOULD RATHER ASSOCIATE MYSELF WITH COLORADO THAN MY REAL HOMETOWN. MY PARENTS WERE RICH ENOUGH TO SEND ME TO SUMMER CAMP. THE MENTION OF MY EXTENSIVE TIME HERE FORSHADOWS A LATER REFERENCE TO MY DEEP CONNECTION TO THE LAND. BE VERY IMPRESSED.

My wife, Gwen, and I have land nearby in Buena Vista where we plan to build our own house close to the river. The house we now use, which is owned by her family, is about 15 minutes from the river. We spend eight weeks of the summer out here. This year I'm teaching a kayaking course at a summer camp nearby.

MY WIFE'S FAMILY IS LOADED. IN TURN, I'M BUILDING, PROBABLY WITH SOME OF THEIR MONEY, AN EVEN COOLER HOUSE IN A BETTER LOCATION AND WILL COMPARE MY HOUSE TO THEIRS AS MUCH AS I CAN. THE SUMMER CAMP THING MEANS I'M VERY SENSITIVE AND CHILD ORIENTED, DESPITE THE FACT I'M FORTY-ONE AND THIS IS MY FIRST REAL ENCOUNTER WITH CHILDREN.

The peak whitewater is in late June or early July, when the snow is melting. Now the water is a little low in some spots. If I'm lucky I can spend five out of every seven days on the river. Gwen enjoys going out on a duckie, an inflatable kayak, but hasn't been out this summer since we are expecting our first child soon.

I DITCH MY PREGNANT WIFE FIVE NIGHTS A WEEK TO GO KAYAKING. THIS WILL BECOME A MAJOR POINT OF CONTENTION AFTER THE CHILD IS BORN AND I CAN NO LONGER DO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT AND LOOK COOL. I WILL CONSIDER NAILING ANOTHER WOMAN, PROBABLY A COLLEGE STUDENT FROM EITHER ONE OF MY CLASSES OR THE SUMMER CAMP.

One recent night, a group of us floated on Browns Canyon for about three hours. That is one of the most heavily trafficked rafting areas on the river, so if don't pay attention you can end up with 20 or 30 rafts around you. Of course, it all depends on what time you go. Paddling on the same river the other night, I didn't see a single person who wasn't with our group.

ALL PEOPLE WHO STARTED RAFTING ON THIS RIVER AFTER I ARRIVED DON'T BELONG HERE. REMEMBER, I SAID I'VE BEEN COMING FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS, AND IT WOULD REALLY MAKE ME LOOK COOLER IF OTHER PEOPLE DIDN'T RAFT HERE AND RUIN ITS EXCLUSIVITY. I'M DEEP AND SENSITIVE AS EVIDENCED BY MY DESIRE FOR SOLITUDE.

I'm a solid advanced intermediate paddler. I don't do the really hard stuff, but I do enjoy Class IV rapids. There is a great section of the river north of Buena vista, up the river from Salida, which has one of the best stretched of Class IV rapids anywhere in the country. Of course, I can't compare this area to a lot of other spots. I've been kayaking in South America and used to live near Yosemite Park, but I love it out here. There is nothing like floating down this river in the early evening light. After almost two decades, I'm not tired of it yet.

I'M A BETTER PADDLER THAN YOU. I'VE ALSO TRAVELLED TO SOUTH AMERICA. I TALK IN DETAIL ABOUT MY TRAVELS AT COCKTAIL PARTIES IN THE HOPE THAT I SOUND WORLDLY AND EXOTIC. HOWEVER, I AM A WHITE GUY FROM THE MIDWEST. STILL, THIS PLACE IS AWESOME AND YOU SHOULD ENVY BOTH ME AND MY LIFESTYLE. DO NOT FORGET THIS. I WILL PLAY OFF THE NY TIMES ARTICLE AS "NOT A BIG DEAL" BUT MAKE SURE EVERYONE I KNOW IS AWARE OF ITS PUBLICATION. I WILL THEN BASED MY ENTIRE LIFE ON THE IMAGE I PUT FORTH IN THE FEW HUNDRED WORDS OF THE ARTICLE. THANK YOU.