A mostly cynical, but always sincere, take on balancing the two hemispheres of my life: Circus and Libraries.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Often on the job, I experience paranoid delusions not unlike those of our patrons. Only instead of insisting that the librarians are in on a plot to either a)foil their attempts at internet usage b)read their minds or c)cover up for bigger government conspiracies (as if. . .) my paranoia stems from the absolutely inane or unphathomably clueless questions I'm sometimes asked. When moments like this arise, I think my collegues are playing a "Candid Camera"-style prank on me to see how I'll react. Case in point, my last reference question: "Where is poetry?" How does one answer that satisfactorily? I inquired as to preference, which elicited, "These Beat poets guys, one's name is Ginseng, and the other is like Kurotow, or maybe Krakatoa." I hope I passed whatever test I was being put through when I nudged the patron into agreeing to read poems by Ginsberg and Kerouac. Which one of you boogers put that young thing up to it?


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