Home From The Metadata War.

Good heavens, I enjoyed sleeping in my own bed last night. You see, I only just got back from the Academic Institute down on the campus of Cal State Northridge, which was the official start of the quarter for this term’s library school studies. And, boy, are my arms tired.

I must confess, I found the entire weekend to be quite an intimidating thing indeed. You see, the thing I already realized when I decided to go to library school was that I had two weaknesses – I am a fundamentally disorganized, quite illogical person. And I have a near-pathological inability to subsume jargon. Well! It appears that this is going to be the quarter for me, then!

On the one hand, I must write an eloquent, informed mid-term report on the scintillating topic of “metadata harvesting” – and how do you do that, by the way? Pick the stuff off the trees? Or is it something that you must find at the bottom of the roots of the metadata bushes, like a potato or carrot?

Meanwhile, on the other hand, I must construct my own database system, with workable search engine, out of, one fears, spit, scotch tape, and string. Long time friends of mine are aware of how clearly I think, so this will most certainly be a terrific challenge. It will look like a Rube Goldberg machine!

I made the mistake of pitching the idea of a poetry database to the professor, who quickly approved it, thus locking me into a project that will probably be quite beyond my reach, particularly if I decide to organize my poems on the level of meter or actual word choice. I might just have to stick to books of limericks, or maybe two line epigrams. We’ll see. On the other hand, I am going to construct the database for my poetry-loving stepfather to test – he’s going to be my Sample User. So that will be very entertaining. High Domain Range Knowledge, Low Information Skills Knowledge, if you know what I mean. (Baby just made his first library jargon joke!)

Because I don’t drive and because the class sessions took place at the ungodly crack of 8 ayem, I set myself up in the hotel that the college had recommended for the weekend. It was a pleasant hotel, and I certainly enjoyed my delicious early morning Hotel Breakfast Buffet with the other students who were staying there and with the genial TAs, but I am only too happy to be home in my delightful bed. The lectures were ferociously intense, and after a point, I felt like I was the cat in that cartoon – you know, the one in which there’s a cat and an angry owner. In this cartoon, the first caption reads, “what the owner says”, and the speech bubble says, ‘cat, don’t scratch the furniture!’” And then, the second caption reads, “what the cat hears”, and the second bubble says ‘blah blah blah blah’.” Well that’s how I feel.

The professor was saying, “In the second column, we have unique validation control and single validation control and entity access recall and collocation of interoperability.” And, of course, by 2 PM on Sunday, I was hearing “blooble blooble blooby boo, gooble gooble goobly goo.” At the end of each day, the class of 50 something or so students staggered out of the library building and down the walk, ashen faced and bug-eyed, like actors playing zombies in an amateur, improvised college production of DAWN OF THE DEAD. Still, I have to confess, I ultimately had a great time. Nothing wrong with meeting 50 fascinating new people and learning new stuff! And nothing makes you feel younger than being in school again. I am extremely motivated to make all this work, I promise you.

Which Library School Project Shall I Choose?

All right, let’s talk a moment about my Information Organization Project for this quarter. I need your advice! The main assignment seems to be the cataloging and organization of some kind of a collection. The basic requirement is that it has to be a fairly large collection – there should potentially be about 1000 pieces that can be organized. Now, I have wracked my brain and come up with the following three possibilities.

My stepdad has a quite comprehensive, yet disorganized collection of 1000s of books on poetry. They are in all different styles, authors, and genres from English to Irish to Indian to Chinese. These could certainly be cataloged in a variety of ways, at many levels of, as the librarians say, “granularity.” I could catalog them by country, by verse style, by author, by genre – the possibilities are endless. This collection would be almost the perfect “echt” library school project, as it consists of books of various types and themes, and I can’t imagine that it would not be approved by the Professor. In addition, the opportunity to bring order to my stepdad’s incredibly chaotic collection is somehow appealing. On the downside, though, I am not actually a huge fan of poetry. But on the other other hand, I don’t think a librarian HAS to be a huge fan of the material he is overseeing, right?

So, for a moment, let’s assume that I don’t choose the poetry books as my collection. If you were to open my poor closet, you would, I am ashamed to say, find a gigantic pile of newspapers. 20 years worth of newspapers! Now, I am NOT an obsessive compulsive packrat, like the sort you see on that TV show “Hoarders,” but each one of those papers has a review by me in it. Some have two or three. Wouldn’t it be a nice thing to wade into those newspapers and catalog all my reviews? I could catalog them by newspaper, as well as by title, genre, theater company, or many other ways. It would make quite a collection, and that’s a fact. On the upside, I know a lot about the theater and it would be rather chuffing to organize my own reviews (or at least a fraction of them). On the downside, I wonder if I could get the project approved by the instructor – and, after that, can you imagine the filthy ink on my hands? And how messy the scraps of paper would make my apartment? The cats would also probably urinate all over the newspapers, I daresay.

Alternatively, but in a related vein, I have at least a thousand actual theater programs stowed in the OTHER closet. And I must confess that I have an archival interest in actually going through them and putting them in some order. I mean, the programs date back from the production of AMADEUS I saw in London in 1983, to the revolting thing I reviewed at the Complex last weekend. It would be quite the walk down memory lane to go through the programs and put them in order as to theater, year, genre – well, who knows how else?

Anyway, so there you have it. Three possibilities for my IOP project! But which one shall I choose? I must confess that I really do not know at this point. I am sort of leaning towards the poetry books – but why not the play programs? It’s so hard to pick. What is YOUR advice?

Cylon In The Library!

The gentleman I saw the other day was a late middle aged, shambolic wreck of a fellow. Tall, lean, and dressed in a filthy blue sweat shirt and jeans. His graying, dandruffy hair straggled down the back of his head and when he smiled his snaggle tooth glinted in the buzzing library fluorescent lighting. He hobbled about on a greasy crutch, which I noticed he was always using when in the library, like he was an elderly Tiny Tim.

“I used to be an actor,” the gentleman croaked. “You know that? Back in the day, I was a star.”

“You don’t say,” I smiled, politely, as, really one must.

“Yahh. I’ll show you. This was me!” He reached into his linty pocket and pulled out a dog-eared scrap of paper, folded many times over. With shaky fingers, he unfolded the paper, revealing the photograph of…. A Cylon from the 1970s.

“That’s me!” the gentleman cackled, pointing at the Toaster (though pedantic fans will point out that The Cylons weren’t called “toasters” until the new 2003 series). I looked fondly at the Cylon. Yes, the photo certainly showed the glittering, gold metallic carapace of one of the monsters from outer space. The great enemy of mankind!

What was less clear was whether the gentleman before me was the chap INSIDE the Cylon. For, as you must know, Cylons are totally metal robots, sealed from the tops of their heads to the bottom of their booties. And you could no more tell that this crazy old loon was inside the Cylon than you could say he wasn’t. He MIGHT have been the Cylon, of course.

After all, in a world where carpenters rise from the grave anything is possible. But, for all I know, anyone could be inside that metal costume. Nevertheless, I smiled and gushed, which appeared to be what the chap wanted. Really, I suppose it is possible the man could have been a Cylon, back in the day. Why not? Or he could have imagined it. In many ways, I think that it would be even sadder if the chap HAD been a 1970s Cylon and was now reduced to near-homelessness, hobbling around the library all day on a crutch. How the mighty have fallen! How we all fall! If he was truly a Cylon, he might have been the most important fellow I have ever met, though.

An Unkind Christmas Poem: Reprinted from My Former Blog, 12/23/2003.

"T'was the night before Christmas,

and all through The Novel,

Not a human was stirring,

Though many a-devil."


"Fat boy was sitting from me not too far,

Ogling boys and eating a Mallomar.

And the one legged fellow was there in a slump,

Waxing and polishing the tip of his stump."


"At a table nearby, a filthy man sung a tune --

only term for it, it was the call of the loon.

Outside, a hag screeched and more she did howl,

While inside a man picked the lice from his jowl."


"The clerk rolled his eyes, and sneered with a grin,

while outside all the groats split a bottle of gin.

When out in the parking lot, there arose such a clatter,

I got up from the counter, to see what was the matter!"


"When what to my wandering eyes should appear,

But a staggering drunk, filth-covered, ear to ear.

He wore a red suit, fur-covered, I think.

His Santa Claus hat could not hide his godawful stink."


"He weaved and he staggered, his shirt covered with sick.

Clear, he was a bum, dressed up as St. Nick.

He fell on his knees, whipped out hose for a piss.

And babbled and roared, on a meth-amphetamine kick."


"His eyes -- how unfocused! His breath -- oh, how fowl!

His face-veins all-busted, his mouth shrieked in a howl!

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he cackled, like a bowl full of jelly."


"MOTHER FUCKER! TITTY SUCKER!

TWO BALLED BITCH FUCK YOU ALL!

COMMIES AND JEW BASTARDS AND SLUMLORDS SO SMALL!

His voice roared and it echoed, through the whole place,

As Santa fell forward, landing right on his face."


"The Novel clerk called 911 as the crowd cheered,

While for the bum Santa, it was just as he feared.

As a cop car pulled up, oh so black and white,

And a brute cop dragged him off, holding him tight."


"So, round the corner, the cop car a-flew,

With the bum Santa in back, trapped as its crew.

From the back seat of the car, his hands all in chains,

The bum Santa called out, curses falling like rains."


"GOD DAMN YOU ALL, YOU ARE ALL PILES OF SHIT.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS? LIKE HELL! GO ROT IN A PIT!"

Library Story: The Magic Sunglasses.

Today a patron came up to my desk in the library’s Computer Commons. He was a young Asian man, fairly stocky, and quite respectable-looking, except for the huge, opaque sunglasses that were covering his face. He had just used the library’s reservation system to make a reservation to use a computer, but he was displeased by where he’d been assigned.

“I was wondering,” the gentleman smiled, “whether I actually have to take that particular computer. Even though I have a reservation for computer 12, can I sit down at some other computer and use it instead?”

I assured him that he could, of course, do just as he pleased, and he was quite delighted.

“That’s terrific!” he noted. “You see, since I started wearing these polarized sunglasses, it becomes incredibly easy to see the future – and I can tell that this computer…” he pointed in the direction of computer 12, “has only 4 months left to it. So I would rather have a different computer!”

I showed him to another computer, though I admit I had to hold myself back from asking what he saw in my future. I mean, don’t you wish YOU had those polarized, future-seeing sunglasses?

BLACK LEATHER at the Unknown Theatre.

It blazes like a shining beacon of snowy whiteness in the dark, guiding wise men to its vicinity and keeping them enthralled by its glowing convex orbs for the entire holiday season! No, silly, I am not talking about the Christmas Star of Bethlehem – I’m talking about playwright Michael Sargent’s pasty naked bottom, which is on near omnipresent display in his latest opus of excess and debauch. The bottom in question may not be the Star of the Nativity, but it is sure the salient feature in Sargent’s plays, which are, frankly, as known for their frequent sightings of naked flesh as Pinter plays are known for pauses. And, while “Black Leather” is not overly rigorously plotted -- and occasionally seems to bear the imprimatur of having been written with haste -- the piece is as strikingly ferocious and morally ambivalent as to be almost archetypal “Sargent.” I suppose the play could best be called a sort of Manhattan Art World Roman A Clef, centering on the notorious life of hardcore photographer Robert “Krapplethorpe,” who’s known for taking lurid photos of his naked tricks performing sado masochistic sex with him. The play opens with Krapplethorpe (Sargent) hilariously tearing apart a business meeting involving his sugar daddy (Jan Munroe) and the hag art gallery director (Kathy Bell Denton) who wants to exhibit Krapplethorpe’s photos – but wishes he’d give her more of the shots of avocados and fewer of the ones of whips going into anuses. Yet, the play’s focus crystallizes during scene two, when Krapplethorpe ditches his sugar daddy to bring home a hot trick (Kevin Daniels) from the Mineshaft, who then proceeds to rigorously roger Krapplethorpe’s rump. Then, as both men snort cocaine and booze it up in the post-coital glow, Krapplethorpe orders the trick to head to a rival’s house and chop off his head. The rest of the play centers on Krapplethorpe’s subsequent terror (upon regaining his senses) that the trick has actually done such a reprehensible thing. Director Chris Covics’ staging intentionally skirts any attempts to depict the sleazy characters sentimentally – they exist in an atmosphere of moral vacuity, orbiting around nothing at all – but there’s also something unusually believable about them. Sargent’s Krapplethorpe is an appetite-driven, spoiled child, whose behavior reflects an entitled, inwardly vacant person that has managed to get away with everything his entire life. The show’s nudity is, of course, blatant and exploitative – but it’s also oddly germane to a story that suggests the human body is a ridiculous object and that recreational sex is itself a bestial, vaguely porcine function. You’ll want to see this show on a night when the actors have all had showers before going on, though.

CARNIVAL KNOWLEDGE at The Lex Theatre.

After watching playwright Naomi Grossman’s solo show about her travails in the Purgatorial limbo of dating and relationships, you will absolutely and categorically want to swear off men. And why not? There never was such a deplorable collection of miserable man-boys with commitment issues, immaturity, and hygiene lapses as the he-baboons that Miss Grossman courts and is courted by. Grossman’s tale is told as a monologue, placed within the context of a circus setting. The show opens with the heroine playing a whimsical game of “whack a mole,” albeit with the rodents being replaced by the jaw-unlatching collection of ginormous pink (and brown) dildoes. From there, Grossman discusses the veritable rogues gallery of dudes she has gone out with, including a lumpen Trader Joe stockboy, a hypercritical neurotic, a middle aged professional masseur with a magnormous shvance, and many more – all of whom probably had reason to regret their dalliances if they accepted their invitation to Opening Night of Grossman’s show. Director Richard Embardo’d Circus Staging, complete with crazy “freakshow” posters, a fortune teller table, and more, jazzes up Grossman’s narrative marvelously, adding color and a twisty sardonic context to the monologue. Yet, Grossman’s reliance on endless malebashing, while never actually offering any soul searching to analyze precisely why these are the men she’s attracted to, inevitably causes the piece to reduce to being little more than a one note stand up act. Still, Grossman herself is a vibrant, charismatic, and sexy protagonist, whose witty and ironic turn comes across as simultaneously sexy and world weary – a vivid embodiment of a survivor of the dating wars.