ZENFORMATION MAIL: How Many People Hate Poor People and Cowboy Hats Anyway?

* NOTE - These are e-mails I've received via the Zenformation Professional. I reserve the right to NOT answer questions about my personal life but may answer them privately. I will only post e-mails and responses that specifically ask me to post a response; however, no advertising or hotlinking will be allowed. E-mail text is unedited (other than identifiers) and some content may be objectionable to some folks.

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You know, just when I thought it was safe to go back into the water...

It's been a long time since I've gone through the ZenFo Pro e-mail. I had almost forgotten that I had the little Dear ZenFo Pro tab on the sidebar. I'm trying to get caught up this morning before my offline professional life gets too hectic (this time of year, that tends to happen)...

Poor People Don't Need Computers:

i hate people who advocate rewarding poor people for contributing nothing. why should my tax dollars go to giving free internet and computers to people when the vast majority of people who are online have to pay for it. if you don't have the money there's always hard work. The digital divide is overhyped and an nonisue. i already pay taxes to support libraries anyway. Don't you guys have computers people can use for free? Quit looking for a handout!

- New York, Feb. 24, 2006

Actually, those "poor people" are often working poor and contribute more than you think. Who the hell do you think actually cooks your food in restaurants, makes the clothes you wear, and fixes things when they break? In the Industrialized world, through some weird quirk of capitalism, the hardest working are usually the lowest paid.

Many libraries in the West offer some kind of public computer access, sure. But that doesn't mean that there's no digital divide or that the divide is a non-issue and it is certainly not "overhyped." - ZP

Why the Hell Would Anyone Go to Indiana?

okay so i'm pissed.i'm sitting in my marketing class and i'm reading your post about hangin out in fucking richmond with a bunch of lesbians and NOT getting laid which I think is funny because that's hard for a guy not to do. Kudos to you but why go to richmond to have a good time? maybe it's cuz I'm a buckeye girl, but hoosierville sucks. What's wrong with oxford? one of the things that pisses me off sometimes is when people trash this town and its not totally aweful to live in. i followed some of your links in the post and realized that you totally slammed miami in he previous post on going to richmond. we're not all rich white ppl down here!

- OXFORD, OHIO, Feb. 27, 2006

Hey, thanks for reading and the kudos. I appreciate that. Probably best not to read the blog while in class, though. I wouldn't want anybody to get called out by an angry prof for hanging out in Cyberspace in the middle of a lecture.

You're right. Oxford isn't a bad place to live, actually. It is a rather unique small town. But it's way too small, in many ways, and like most small college towns, students tend to view it from a different standpoint than the "townies." Have you ever stopped to wonder, for instance, why it is, exactly, what many non-student townsfolk think of the fact that the three main enterprises in Oxford's Uptown (main business district) are bars, sandwich shops, and tanning salons?

Sometimes, even the ZenFo Pro needs to get out and have some fun. - ZP

So I Take It This Guy Didn't Like Brokeback Mountain...

Cowboy hats are so gay. Flip the brim on a ball cap dude. Chicks dig that.

- CHICAGO, Feb. 21, 2006

Actually, my Stetson (as well as my brown Resistol) is rather asexual. Never bothered to ask my hat about its sexual orientation.

As for "chicks digging" the Kevin Federline look, keep on thinking that, chief. I've always been under the impression that the majority of women find the "flipped brim" look kinda, sorta unappealing. When I was younger, I did indeed flip the brim. But then a female friend of mine/image consultant pointed out that that look tended to convey a rather unflattering image - more sophisticated women see a ballcap cocked to the side and see a man who makes love like an epileptic jackhammer.

Some women may like that; most - I hope - do not. I'll stick with my Stetson, thank you very much. - ZP

A ha! A Librarian Question!

WHY IS IT I CAN'T FIND A SINGLE BOOK ON MY PAPER TOPIC IN MY COLLEGE'S LIBRARY ? ALL THE BOOKS ARE OUT OF DATE FOR MY PAPER TOPIC AND I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING WRITTEN AFTER 1969! PLEASE HELP

- ATLANTA, Jan. 29, 2006

Damn, I hope I'm not answering this question too late for it to be useful...

First, I'd recommend sitting down with a librarian at your institution. They should be able to help. While your academic library may not possess or be able to afford some of the materials you need, there's always InterLibrary Loan (ILL), state consortia, and online resources. Ask about all three of these options and I promise, you'll make some libby's day.

I'd also point out the dated materials problem. In libraries, materials are chosen, acquired, maintained, and discarded through a process known as collection development (a more technical definition here). There may be a legitimate reason for keeping old materials; this also might be a sign that a collection area is being neglected. Either way, if the current collection isn't helping you, there's always other options. - ZP

Am I the Hot Cowboy Librarian?

I was in [ZenFo Pro's] Library yesterday in the elevator an noticed that somebody had written something like the cowboy librarian is hot.
1. are uthe cowboy librarian their talking about?
2. if so does that must feel pretty cool, right?,
3. do you think its because of your site?

I also want to point out that i think its retarded that people around here can't figure out who you are. not hard, dude. you kind of stand out and i think people need to chill the fuck outwhen it comes to like sending you stupid emails. it makes those of us here at MU who are actually here to get an education look stupid.

Please post and please please please take out my address. i don't want hate mail and i'm just a person.

- OXFORD, OHIO, Feb. 26, 2006

No problem. I always appreciate honest e-mails, so you're posted and I've removed your personal contact information. For the record, I remove all names and e-mail addresses for people's privacy. I also purge all e-mails as soon as I read them as an added safeguard.

Yes, I'm aware of it. Too aware of it. My colleagues are convinced that it's referring to me, though there's at least one other librarian here who probably fits that description. It's actually embarrassing. There's nothing cool about having your coworkers tease you because somebody took a Sharpie to state property.

That's the most uncool part of it ... my library is, like most libraries, a public institution. Vandalizing municipal property isn't flattering - it costs taxpayers and my library money to clean up the mess.

I don't know if it was someone who reads this blog or not. I hope not. If it is, well, don't do that, dammit!

Mardi Gras is Where You Find It: Krewes of the Politically Correct, On Being a Token, and Harry Dean Stanton

RICHMOND, Ind. (ZP) -- Okay, so it's carnival season and I've done absolutely nothing to mark the season - not a single King Cake, no beads on my front door, and no Professor Longhair blaring from speakers.

After the devastation that was that bitch Katrina, I just haven't been in the mood. I'm glad that the Krewes kept a-rolling this year down in New Orleans and around the Gulf Coast. New Orleans isn't dead, but there's still so much grief, so much utter tragedy.

It's good to see that part of the country - a part of America I called home for more than two years - getting back to its feet again, refusing to go silently into that good night.

So when a girl I met a few months ago during an trip to nearby Richmond, Indiana, called to invite me to a Mardi Gras party, I must say I wasn't in too festive a mood.

I hadn't heard a peep from this woman since we met back in November. Honestly, it took me a while Friday night to figure out who was leaving me the most obscure, drunken voicemails.

We finally connected Saturday morning. Ish told me she'd been watching CNN footage of this year's Mardi Gras at a friend's house, they started talking about Katrina, and decided it would probably be fun to have a Carnival of their own, to show some solidarity with the Gulf Coast.

Since I was the only person she and her friend had ever met who'd actually experienced an actual New Orleans Carnival, they thought it might be a make the party more authentic.

The only thing I was asked to bring was some traditional music (I burned a few party mixes that included the Legendary KO's George Bush Don't Care About Black People to make it really feel like a 2006 NOLA Mardi Gras), wear a few beads, and just show up in a costume.

Not that difficult, right? Sure...

First, I got lost looking for the address of Ish's friend. Second, I forgot to bring enough beads. If I'd known I was going to be in a house with a few dozen drunk women insistent on flashing their breasts at anything with a penis attached, honestly, I probably would've brought more beads.

Damn. I do kinda, sorta miss that element of New Orleans. Of course, if this were Bourbon Street instead of Indiana, odds are half the women flashing breasts would have penises attached themselves.

After all, it's not really Mardi Gras season unless there's some nudity involved - male, female, or transgendered. Some of the nicest folks in the Quarter, pre-Katrina, were the pre- and post-op "shemales" and "hegirls" who would hang out in front of places like Cafe Lafitte (the oldest gay bar in America and a favorite hangout of Tennessee Williams back in the day.)

If there's one reason why I'm certain New Orleans will survive, it's because of the Mardi Gras. If the religious fundamentalists couldn't pray it away, if the prohibitionists couldn't dry it out, then there's no way in hell any damned hurricane will ever kill that amazingly decadent city.

Breast-flashing aside, it was nice to have a piece of King Cake, even if it was made in some foreign grocery store in the Midwest. I even kept the party's host, Ish's friend "Mary" (not her real name), from choking on the Baby Jesus.

Halfway through the party, I realized that I was one of only seven or so guys at the party. After I put about five bottles of Miller High Life down, I asked Mary why there weren't more - usually, the thought of a free Carnival peep-show is enough to bring guys in swarms.

Mary thought the question was hilarious. Obviously, Ish hadn't communicated the fact that this was a party hosted by members of the Hoosier State's lesbian community. Ish and I were the only hetero folks in the house. Part of the reason I was invited was to serve as Ish's escort.

You know, this is part of the reason I don't go to parties often. I hate hidden agendas.

I ran out of cigarettes, so I decided to walk to a nearby gas station to pick up a pack of Marlboros. Mary decided to come with me, being she was the only other smoker at the party who'd managed to bum themselves into nicotine withdrawal.

She asked what I thought about the party and apologized again for not telling me that this Mardi Gras celebration had left me the lone straight-guy representative. She seemed concerned that I was not having a good time, that somehow being in a house full of lesbians was making me uncomfortable.

After I explained, in detail, that there was nothing to worry about and that (sigh) the Stetson was not some sign that I was somebody who was easily uncomfortable around members of the GLBT community, the topic switched to New Orleans.

Mary asked about some of my favorite memories from Mardi Gras. When I mentioned the Mardi Gras Indians, she quickly jumped to correct me - it was Mardi Gras Native Americans. I tried to continue, figuring I'd just explain the history of the Indians - a virtual secret society of black men who, in tribute to the local tribes that harbored runaway slaves, dress in ornate, tribal-inspired masks and costumes.

But no, every time I used the word Indian, it was met with a Native American. As anybody who's been in one of these types of politically-correct sparring matches will tell you, nobody wins anything. I once had a woman but into a conversation about baseball's Negro Leagues, offended by a word, and totally oblivious to the fact that this black ballplayer and I were discussing Cool Papa Bell and Satchel Paige.

When it became clear that further discussion of the Mardi Gras Indians would mean more utterly pointless Indian/Native American exchanges, I changed the subject. I think Mary was under the impression that there's actually some indigenous tribe in the Gulf Region called the Mardi Gras. Having to explain otherwise would probably either offend or embarrass.

By the time we got back to the party, most of the guests were, in true Mardi Gras tradition, well past the point of being blitzed. Ish needed to get home anyway, so she asked me to give her a ride home.

Did I mention that I don't like hidden agendas?

Upon arriving at Ish's place, I found it rather intriguing that, out of four roommates, all happened to be out of town for the weekend. And who accidentally leaves Tom Waits' Heart of a Saturday Night on repeat in the CD player?

Okay, I didn't walk into this blind. A girl calls you up after almost four months of no communication and invites you to a party. It turns out you're the only hetero guy and she's the only hetero girl at said party. And people at said party mentioned several times that Ish had recently broken up with some guy she'd been seeing, that they hoped she'd just meet somebody special, and that she...

You get the picture. I'm not so dense that I can't figure out when I've been set up.

I hung around a bit anyway. She had Repo Man on DVD. I love Repo Man - I must've watched that flick a thousand times back when I was in high school, playing in a punk band, and wanting to be the next Joey Ramone.

First, we started out watching the flick on opposite ends of the couch. Then, she stretched out a bit and shoved her feet in the cushions beneath my ass. Thirty minutes into the film, she flips around and puts her head in my lap, drawing circles with her finger on my thigh.

Oh shit. I had no desire to be the rebound fling or the post-relationship fuck buddy. I've been that guy. I don't want to be that guy anymore. And that was where this was headed. I'm lousy with reading signs in terms of relationships, but when there's nothing beyond a quick physical act there's not too many signals to read.

After my last mistake, I'm in no mood to deal with having to wake up next to somebody with whom I have very little in common - other than a love of films starring Harry Dean Stanton.

Nothing happened beyond her asking me if I found her attractive. Of course I found her attractive! That's not the problem. I'm not sure, exactly, what the problem was. Sometimes, things just don't feel right.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm tired of being the guy who's treated like the go-to guy when it comes to somebody else's sexual healing.

Driving back to Oxford, I couldn't help but think of how nice the weather must be down in Baton Rouge and New Orleans - how free people must feel to be caught up in the sheer madness that is the season.

By midnight Wednesday, the Carnival season will be over, and the fasting of Lent will replace the fatness of Mardi Gras.

Scholarship is Seriously Screwed Now...The ZenFo Pro is Now a Published Scholar

My research partner left me a series of rather disturbing voicemails over the last few days.

"Jason, please call me as soon as you can. It's about our article..."

"We really need to talk about our article..."

The first thought that went through my mind was that we're going to need to do more revisions. Our nearly 30-page, 600-pound gorilla of a white paper is probably the most complex scholarly project I've ever helped complete. More than a year's worth of research and investigation.

We spent three days huddled in front of her fiance's laptop last year, arguing, writing, arguing about writing, and beating the hell out of a complex topic in a St. Louis coffee shop to get the preliminary draft completed. Then two months of internal revision, editing, and local peer reviews.

We finally submitted the article to an information science journal last September. The editor was on sabbatical and somehow our e-submission was lost. We finally heard back earlier this year. We were asked to formally resubmit with only four changes.

After turning down an offer to - sigh - entertain the idea of being the first librarian to cross into that "scholarly" erotic cinema in December, my collaborator and I finally sat down for 16 hours over the MLK holiday - right after my fling. Working through my illness/post-fling high and her grief over a recent death, we revised the entire article using via IM software.

I'm pretty sure our article is one of the first in the U.S. that advocates adopting open-source, non-proprietary ICT in Least Developed Nations that was composed almost entirely in OpenOffice, delivered toin-boxess via Mozilla Thunderbird, and utilizing public WiFi and FireFox to access the web during the research process.

Maybe its just me, but I think my collaborator and I need to gloat about the fact that we wrote an entire scholarly piece practicing what we're preaching.

We finished and resubmitted. My partner heard back last week.

After completely scaring the shit out of me yesterday (she had left the intentionally misleading voicemails to trick me into believing we were going to suffer through another round of revisions), I almost had a heart attack when she finally informed me that our gorilla is now formally accepted and will be published shortly.

Hot damn. I'm gonna be a published scholar.

To my lovely friend and fellow researcher - who, I might add, is the sexiest information science scholar in the world, will one day be the spouse of one of the smartest Habesha men in the world, and will one day produce the most beautiful, intelligent children the world has ever known... thanks for putting up with my bullshit and pushing me to push myself.

You bring the injera. I'll bring the wine. It's time to celebrate!

I really wish I could republish the article, but, well, then I'd be opening myself up to a whole world's worth of trouble in terms of privacy, first-use copyright, and several scholarly faux-pas. But here's an excerpt from an early draft (left in its unedited format):

...There must be a push towards integrating [Sub-Saharan Africa's poorest nations] into the Information Age, as opposed to simply adapting Western technologies for the developing world'’s needs. The possibility of Western dominance over information infrastructure and local culture and custom provides numerous opportunities for [information and communication technologies] access and availability, but also raises concerns about the possibility of creating a colonial environment driven by [information and communication technologies] ...

And yes, that was written by an Ethiopian and an American, sitting in a coffee shop in downtown St. Louis on July 4, 2005.

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Digital Divide, ICT, Information Poverty, Information Science, Least Developed Nations, Sub-Saharan Africa, Teledensity

A Very Dirty Dozen, Indeed ...A Meme of Sorts

The meme is a select art form in the Electronic Age.

Answer this number of questions and then forward it to this many people. Explain yourself in this many words, then share it with friends. Post this to your blog and tag as many people as you - the memenator - deem worthy.

I'm going to try to put a different spin on this concept. Since the basic idea is to entertain through either a) humiliation, b) nostalgia, or c) a narcissistic combination of both, what if one could turn the whole idea into something more entertaining?

Here's the deal...

Below are 12 statements about myself. Four are complete bullshit. The rest are accurate representations of my offline existence. Some are harsh; some are rather entertaining.

I've been trying to think of a way to blog about some of the things friends have told me they'd like to see on this blog. I'm sure there are folks out there who have wondered why, sometimes, I seem a bit gun-shy when it comes to blogging about certain experiences. I'm not sure what's so fascinating, really. We all sing the body electric in our own way - how is my life any more interesting than, say, an elementary school custodian, an electrician, or a truck driver?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to figure out which ones are true and which ones are false...

1. I once split two packs of cigarettes with an actress who has co-starred in films with the likes of Johnny Depp and Cher. We sat on a rock near the Pacific in the middle of the night, talking about relationships, love, and Walt Whitman.

2. There is a certain California-based fitness guru, known best for his aerobics show in the 1960s and his juicer in the 1990s, who gave me a half-hour lecture about my smoking habit.

3. I try to resist calling a certain Texas politician stupid, ignorant, insane, or evil on this blog because I met the man back in 2000 during one of his scheduled campaign stops. He is anything but stupid; he's also got one hell of a sense of humor.

4. In grad school, I attended the same church as Louisiana governor Kathleen Blanco's predecessor. Despite having nothing in common with him politically, I made a point of thanking him for running for office and chatted him up about his love of Harleys.

5. The biggest asshole I've ever met starred in White Men Can't Jump.

6. I went to grad school not to become a librarian but to get into private-sector intelligence and information brokerage work.

7. I worked as a library design consultant, information analyst, wholesale surplus salvage specialist, historic site planner, and freelance researcher for a private investigaton agency to offset some of the costs associated with grad school - while in grad school.

8. My parents were/are very wealthy when I was growing up and spoiled me. My trip to Paris in 1994 was utterly amazing.

9. I quit reading tarot cards, tea leaves, dominoes, and other family folk traditions when I became educated.

10. I have a relatively high opinion of myself and trust my ability to make sound decisions.

11. The numbers 33, 19, 23, 19, 30, 20, 36, and 24 represent the respective ages of the last eight women with whom I've been romantically involved.

12. I've been friends with men who are now doing time in maximum security prisons for violent crimes. The first girl I ever kissed-kissed (at 15) ended up going to prison for her involvement in a double murder and commited suicide in December 2004.

I haven't made up my mind about whether or not I'll actually answer any guesses to which four are the false statements. If you've read the blog long enough, it probably shouldn't be too awfully difficult, but I think I've even put in enough embarrassing stuff to keep even good friends guessing.

Consider this an open-source tag. Feel free to reuse for your own blogging pleasure. One of the tricky things about Cyberspace is trying to figure out what to keep private and what to make public.

And This Year's Total Bastard Award Goes To...

...Travis Frey, of Council Bluffs, Iowa!

You, sir, are clearly one sick bastard.

Bluffs Man Accused Of Creating Marriage Contract
TheOmahaChannel.com [via MSNBC]

COUNCIL BLUFFS, Iowa [MAP] - A Council Bluffs man is accused of kidnapping his own wife, and prosecutors allege he devised a marriage contract to establish what his wife was to do, and when she was to do it. Travis Frey, 33, is accused, among other things, of giving his wife chances to win "good behavior days."...

- FULL COVERAGE HERE -

If you have the stomach for it, TSG has the original contract scanned and available for viewing.

Google's Image Search:Copyright Violation or Research Tool?

Judge Says Google's Image Search Violates Some Copyrights
Elise Ackerman,
The San Jose (Calif.) Mercury News
Feb. 21, 2006

A Los Angeles federal judge has ruled that Google's image search violates an adult Web site's copyrights by displaying
"thumbnail'' versions of its photos.

In a ruling released Tuesday, U.S. District Judge A. Howard Matz found Google directly infringed on copyrights held by Perfect 10, a Beverly Hills publisher.

He said the free availability of the photos on Google could harm Perfect 10's efforts to sell thumbnail, or small, versions of its photos as downloads to cell phones...

- READ THE ARTICLE HERE -

HAMILTON CONFIDENTIAL: Supernatural Old Stetsons, Buying New Jeans, and Waitresses Who Look Like T-Boz Watkins

If you get to thinking you're a person of some influence, try ordering somebody else's dog around.

- Cowboy Proverb

HAMILTON, Ohio (ZP) -- One of my favorite articles of clothing is an old gray Stetson. I've had it for years. Before that, the hat belonged to my grandfather. According to legend, my grandfather found it at the bottom of a wash outside Tuscon, Arizona, shortly after my parents were married.

The hat was, from what I understand, old and beat to hell back when Grandpa found it. According to some family members, my grandfather's mother, my great-grandmother, took it as an omen that my parents were about to bring a child into the world.

There must be something to that, because I was conceived shortly thereafter.

Needless to say, I firmly believe that my old gray Stetson is bestowed with supernatural powers.

I have ended relationships with women who've insisted that I have it cleaned or have attempted to throw it away. I once broke a guy's hand for trying to steal it.

It is, well, my lucky hat. I don't know who lost their Stetson in that Arizona rainstorm 30 years ago. Maybe it belonged to some Pima brujo; maybe it belonged to some drunk dumb enough to pass out in a box canyon. Maybe it simply blew away from its previous owner during the storm. Who knows?

Life is filled with these sorts of mysteries - that's what makes life worth living.

* * * * *

Since I moved back east, I've heard people make the strangest assumptions based solely on my wearing that old cowboy hat. It's amazing how people are willing to judge someone based on an article of clothing. Stereotypes are such silly, superficial things.

I've had people from places like Cleveland and Columbus assume that I'm somehow a Republican because obviously only Republicans wear cowboy hats. Sure, Bush wears a cowboy hat. So does Dick Cheney. But what about Bill Richardson? Colorado Sen. Ken Salazar beat the GOP by campaigning in his trademark cowboy hat.

Yeah. My hat automatically makes me a card-carrying conservative. If you believe that, then you really need to get out more, see the damned country.

And sure, I've heard the redneck comments. My intelligence has been called into question because of my choice in headgear; one person even used the "But you're so well-spoken..." phrase dreaded by just about every minority group in America.

So I'm not allowed to read the Tao Te Ching or Sandburg's Cornhuskers at a coffee shop because I sometimes wear a Stetson? Please.

* * * * *

I spent Saturday shopping for clothes, something I hate doing.

I refuse to wear anything but jeans at work. I tore one of my favorite pairs when I fell off a ladder Friday. Last week, I wore out the crotch on another.

At one department store, I struck gold. Two pairs of jeans for $25. I even found a nice button-up shirt for three bucks. If there's one thing I learned early, beyond legends about my lucky hat, it's how to shop the clearance racks.

I hate shopping. Sometimes, I'll browse in the immediate area or I'll remember something else I need. But I rarely buy things simply because I want them; I try to minimalize my capitalistic tendencies to the necessities. Movies, music, and books - that's my big weakness.

But clothes? Hell...why pay retail? It's just cloth stitched together to provide covering and warmth. If I hadn't lost so much weight (I've dropped from my broadcaster weight of 240 pounds to about 165 pounds in five years' time), I'd still be a able to find jeans in my size at thrift stores.

I'll make up for my retail consumerism next week. I've got another load of clothes to drop off at a local charity. While those 36-inch-waist pants are too big for me these days, there are plenty of men who they will fit. Plus, I've got an Armani sports coat that I'll never wear, a gift from a friend a while back. If that can help a guy get through a job interview, well, who am I to judge?

I realized, after I'd already paid for my purchases, that I'm in need of some new boots. My current pair are showing quite a bit of wear. Being too tired to keep shopping, I decided to shop for boots on Sunday.

* * * * *

I returned to Hamilton the next day and hit up a few sporting goods stores looking for boots. The trip turned out to be a futile one, so on the way back home I stopped for an early supper, figuring I'd better spend money on something to justify the wasted gas.

I was the only customer in this particular roadhouseI struck up a conversation with the waitress, since she had nothing else to do besides roll silverware up into napkins and fill ketchup jars.

We talked about the most random things - her failed marriage, her brief Air Force career, and the wit and wisdom of Run-DMC.

At one point, she asked if she could try on my cowboy hat.

When she put it on, her face lit up like a little kid with a new toy. She primped, preened, and checked herself out in the bar mirror. The hat was way too large for her and she actually looked like a child in the Stetson.

She said she'd wanted to be a cowgirl since she saw her first rodeo, back while when she stationed in Colorado Springs. She said she thought that that must sound completely silly coming from a black woman.

I told her it wasn't silly at all. Being black doesn't exclude anybody from being a cowboy.

First, there's the legendary Buffalo Soldiers. There's Add Jones, probably the most legendary black cowboy to ever ride through the west Texas and the New Mexico Territory. And then there's the immortal Bill Pickett, one of the greatest rodeo performers of all time and so important a figure that cowboy humorist Will Rogers eulogized him.

The waitress then put the hat back on my head. For some reason, this 20-something black woman couldn't stop adjusting and readjusting the brim.

She told me I looked like the cowboys she'd seen in movies but couldn't figure out who I looked like, exactly. I told her she looked a lot like T-Boz Watkins, one of the surviving members of the 1990s R&B act TLC.

She apparently really liked that compliment. Several items miraculously disappeared from my check.

What can I say? Women dig the hat.

That's one stereotype I really don't mind at all. If some people want to judge me for head wear, well, there's nothing I can do about it.

I'm proud of the fact that I was born a Westerner, just as proud as I am that I was blessed to grow up in the South and still say "ya'll" in polite conversation. If you feel the need to judge me because of my Stetson, go right ahead.

We'll see who gets the free slice of apple pie.

WHY I GIVE UP MY FRIDAY NIGHTS:Battlestar Galactica is the Best Show on Television, Period

After last Friday night, falling into old bad habits, I decided to return to one of my good habits. One that makes me proud to be a human being, one that makes me feel uneasy, and one that usually ends up making me cry.

I just finished watching the latest episode of the Sci-Fi Channel's now critically-acclaimed series, Battlestar Galactica. Not that old 1970s Dirk Benedict vehicle, but a completely different show based loosely on the original. I watch the show religiously; last weekend, I almost had a friend FED-EX me a videotaped copy of a missed episode...thank goodness for re-runs.

Yeah...I've got a few quirks. Who doesn't?

I've blogged about BSG five times before, starting in June of last year. Back in August, I turned a certain person onto the show. (Hint - if anybody has ever wondered why it is, exactly, I periodically get bizarre e-mails asking the strangest things, it probably has to do with this one post. Yes, celebrities have visited Oxford Fucking Ohio, and this explains why I don't blog about people in entertainment.)

I've got my parents watching it. I even got my brother-in-law to sit down at watch almost the entire second season on DVD the day after Christmas...in one sitting.

I readily admit I'm a sci-fi nerd. While I've never been one to strap on the pointy Vulcan ears and visit fan conventions, I'm not at all embarrassed by the fact that I know the difference between warp drives and the Warped Tour. I dig cheesy zombie flicks. If it's got aliens, robots, monsters, vampires, or mutants in it, odds are I've watched it.

But Battlestar Galactica has a different appeal. Sure, the show is a sci-fi lover's dream. But BSG, at its heart, is one of the most daring political and social critiques ever produced for television. Not since Rod Serling used the Twilight Zone's fantasy world to tackle issues like racism, censorship, Joe McCarthy, and the Korean War has there been a show offered such subtle, seering commentary on everything from politics to pop culture.

I'm not the only one who thinks BSG is one of the best shows on television. Check out the New Yorker's review. How about Rolling Stone? Still not interesting you? How about Steven Hart's review of the Season 1.0 DVD set over at Blog Critics?

If you've ever wondered how I spend the majority of my Friday nights, well, now you know. Not very exciting, but, it's a lot more safe than reckless binge drinking and there's no risk of waking up next to someone with whom I have very little in common.

Oh, and before I forget...

I've had a few people in the last few weeks who've politely asked what the hell a 27-year-old, relatively level-headed professional found most attractive about a certain barely-legal Italian backpacker, so much so that he almost quit my damned job to move to another country.

Do you have any idea how goddamned sexy it is to come home and find a gorgeous woman curled up on your living room floor, wrapped up in a blanket, watching the same DVDs you were hoping to God said hot woman never found - the Battlestar Galactica boxsets, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Night of the Living Dead - while wearing your favorite Stetson? And to find out that said hottie actually enjoys them?

Or to get goosebumps when you sit down between somebody's legs, to feel three days' worth of leg stubble scratching your arms and not care because somebody wants to know how to turn on the subtitles?

ZENFORMATION PLAYLIST 2/15/06: Pimping Dad Flashbacks, More Queers, and the Impending German Invasion

1. Golden - A Girl Called Eddy, self-titled album (Anti, 2004)
The last track off this wonderfully soulful debut album from New Jersey-born Erin Moran. The album was produced by former Pulp guitarist Richard Hawley. Starting off this playlist with a song dedicated to a certain friend who just got out of rehab and I figure she needs somebody to send her a V-Day gift.

2. Magic 8 Ball - Cub, Heide Sez... Compilation (Lookout!, 1996)
[MP3]
Cub is one of those anomolies of punk music. An all-female trio from Vancouver, this band recorded a couple of albums for Mint and Lookout! Records in the 1990s, but I have no clue what happened to them. Just imagine a softer, less packaged sound than the likes of the Donnas. Formed in 1992 at the University of British Columbia's CITR 101.9 FM, one of the most important influential college radio stations in North America.

3. Punk Rock Girls - The Queers, Don't Back Down (Lookout!, 1996)
[Watch the Music Video ]
Lol...been playing a lot of the Queers lately. I think this is about the thousandth Queers track I've featured. What can I say? I'm a binge listener. Just wait until I get on my New York Dolls kick. Or Wu-Tang Clan. Or Slick Rick. Or...

4. All The Good Men - The Robocop Kraus, They Think They Are...(Epitaph, 2005)
[MP3]
Germany finally has a post-punk, past New Wave answer to the likes of Interpol. Actually, these Germans were so forward thinking that they invented the sound back when they formed in 1998. I heard some indie scenester bill this band as a "new" act. The Robocop Kraus actually have five albums under their belt, and are one of the biggest bands in Continental Europe. This album, which I think is the band's first official U.S. label release, hits stores Feb. 21.

Remember, if these guys blow up here in the States, you heard it here first...

5. Downtown Train - Tom Waits, Rain Dogs (Island, 1990)
One of my favorite Waits tunes, especially on a Wednesday morning. Reminds me of driving through St. Louis for some reason.

6. Little Wonder - David Bowie, Earthling (Arista, 1997)
Can't go wrong with a little Bowie on a hump day, either.

7. Superfly - Curtis Mayfield, motion picture soundtrack (Single 1972)
Curtis's falsetto is probably one of the most beautiful in the history of R&B. I grew up with this song and people who actually resembled the lead character of the film Superfly. This song always reminds me of some of the fathers of friends I grew up with. Black men with straightened hair, fly white suits and matching fedoras.

I must've heard this song a thousand times at one high school buddy's house. I remember listening to the whole soundtrack while droppin' bones (playing dominoes) and sippin' the gun (drinking 40s of Colt .45 malt liquor) with this same friend's dad on a hot Meherrin, Virginia, afternoon in their woodshed. He was one of the slickest players in the game - first guy in his family to be able to afford a Lincoln. He actually looked a lot like the title character from Superfly, minus the cocaine and the taste for prostitutes, of course.

Americans, Latin American Migrant Labor, and a Valentine's Day Lesson in Diversity - A Love Story

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It's so strange to see migrant laborers here in Oxford, to hear conversations en espanol while shopping for baked soy chips and black beans in Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere America.

There are klan rallies more diverse than this community. Miami's student body, the main source of revenue for the community, makes Brigham Young University look like the Tuskegee Institute. One of my first thoughts upon moving to this town was damn, so this is what a whitebread America looks like.

So needless to say, I get kind of excited when I have a chance to play amateur ambassador to anybody who is probably used to be treated like a frigging Martian in a town full of white people.

Unlike a majority of Americans, I'd rather talk to the foreigners who come to this country, those who come seeking basic freedoms, those coming to work, and those coming to visit. I grew up feeling that it was my duty as an American to do so. Blame it on my having a career diplomat for a grandfather.

Those "foreigners" who get berated by weary tourists in airports from Los Angeles to New York simply for not understanding English very well? Yeah. They're from places like Ethiopia, Eritrea, Ghana, Kenya, Nigeria, Sudan, and other countries. One of the best "dates" I've ever been on was in a Houston airport with an Eritrean doctoral student/cleaning woman named Aster. Those guys working long hours on construction sites and on farms? Yeah. They're from places like Mexico, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic.

So please, if you're reading this post and are afraid to welcome diverse visitors into your own country yet want to bitch about things like Affirmative Action and the quest for equal rights, feel free to go ahead and kiss my diversity-loving ass. Not a big fan of the acceptance of diversity as a part of the body politic without a personal dedication to appreciating the world's vast market of diverse cultures, ideas, and experiences.

But this is a post about love, not about politics and diplomacy. In the parking lot of the grocery store, I helped these Mexican guys struggling to load a rusty green Chevy. Let's just say wearing a cowboy hat and driving a pick-up created an opening for me to strike up a conversation (I had to explain that I wasn't hiring.)

One of the guys had gone a bit overboard in Valentine's Day shopping. I'm pretty sure this one guy - all 5 foot nothing of him - had bought more daisies than I think I've ever seen one man buy. He had the chocolates. He had the wine. He had, yes, a trunk full of teddy bears. This guy's friends were a bit embarrassed and were more than willing to step back and let an Anglo do the packing.

I asked, after the car was loaded and the trunk shut, what the hell would drive a guy to go out and buy all this stuff. I've been in love once or twice, but I've never blown what was more than likely the equivalent of a week's pay on any woman for a silly holiday.

This short guy has a girlfriend who works as a housekeeper for a hotel chain in Cincinnati. Despite living no more than an hour's drive apart, he hasn't been able to get into the city in months. Without a car of his own (green Chevy was a ride shared between six guys), he'd had to wait for a stint of bad weather to slow down local construction projects enough to take a day off.

So my friend with the trunk full of candy, flowers, and stuffed animals had a date in Cincinnati with his girlfriend. His roommates, all five of them, had talked another migrante into loaning this guy a rusty Chevrolet for a romantic getaway to ... northern Kentucky.

The guy showed me a picture of his beautiful best girl. He is a very lucky man. Given the hundreds of dollars this guy just spent, I'm certain he's very well aware of that fact. I made sure to wish him well.

It's nice, for once, to meet somebody who's completely in love.

Walking into the store, I noticed the sheer ... whiteness ... of Oxford Fucking Ohio. Not in terms of skin color or culture, but I noticed the distinct blandness and superficiality of day-to-day life in a diversity-free vacuum.

One mop-topped Calvin Klein model wannabe kid was standing next to the fresh produce, chatting with a couple of guys. In his shopping basket, he had three cases of expensive imported beer... and a small box of store-brand chocolates. Listening in on a bit of their conversation, the candy was an attempt to get his girlfriend to finally "put out."

In the candy aisle, a group of sorority sisters were huddled around the Whitman's display, discussing what sounded to be completely worthless exes. They seemed to be working out a game plan to spend Valentine's Day in sweats, watching bad chick flick cheese and eating way too much sugar.

In the check-out line, a middle-aged mom was buying her own flowers because, as she told the cashier, she was sure her husband wouldn't remember.

A pair of women behind me in the check-out line were loudly discussing the shameless displays of consumerism and Valentine's Day and the exploitation of women.

I turn around to see who's making such a god awful fuss about something so stupid and notice a pair of the most bitter women I've seen in a long time, representatives of that class of academia known for being too caught up in their own intellectual bullshit to see through basic human hypocrisy.

So buying candy and flowers and other junk is rampant consumerism. Big deal. Exploitation of women? Maybe. But who in their right mind is going to take such ramblings seriously, especially when they're coming from a pair of bitter spinsters with copies of People, Cosmo, and trashy romance novels sitting on the top of their shopping cart?

As I was leaving, the short, balding Mexican guy from the parking lot came strolling back into the store. Nobody seemed to notice, since most Americans refuse to even acknowledge the existence of foreigners in their country. The guy made a beeline for the flowers.

This guy is buying more flowers? Damn.

In the next 24 hours, some housekeeper, working for little money in some Cincinnati motel, is going to have a thousand times the Valentine's Day most Americanos ever experience in a lifetime.

Having met my fair share of female migrantes in this country, I'm sure there's probably no woman in the world more deserving of a little romance in her life. From her boyfriend's perspective, there is obviously no partner more worthy of such affection.

I think there's something to be learned from that. Love is an absolutely amazing thing, even in Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere America.

TECHNORATI TAGS:
Valentine's Day, Migrant workers, Mexico, Oxford, Ohio, Romance, Pop Culture, Diversity, Love

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Pabst Blue Ribbon, The Dangers of Blue Sharpies, and Women Who Listen to Johnny Horton

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- In the beginning, there was darkness. That darkness soon gave way to bright winter sunshine, pouring through my bedroom window and digging holes into my eyelids.

There's nothing like a Saturday morning hangover, especially when you have no clue how you got home the night before.

The last thing I remember, a colleague and I were in a Starbucks, trying to sober up after a bit of workweek-inspired bar hopping. I had put down three liters of that lovely ambrosia that is Pabst Blue Ribbon, a Red Needle, and a Captain Morgan's and Sprite. I walked with him back to his car, completely intent on going home and sleeping it off.

My cellphone started bouncing around in my jeans pocket. I tried ignoring it but it just kept vibrating. So I walked back to the coffee shop to sit down, further sober up, and to find out what was so damned important as to call at midnight.

After that, I know I hooked up with a party of girls on a pub crawl. And I know this one woman - an emergency responder from a nearby large metropolitan are - thought I was lying about being a librarian, because she'd never met a straight male librarian before, especially one who wore workboots and tee shirts to the office.

The rest, a day later, is still a bit of a gummy haze.

Waking up after a night of drinking is an artform. Having done this quite a bit when I was an undergrad, I approach the piecing together of a night's events like a surgeon removing an appendix. First, I examine the body for strange markings. I had blue Sharpie "tattoos" all over my arms. Let's see...there's the "I'm a man eater" tag that somebody put on my arm. There's the anchor tat, which looks like my own handiwork. Then there's the name Brandy written in the middle of a heart and the number 16 underneath.

Okay. Not bad. Could be worse.

Then I notice the clothes on the floor. I don't wear women's low-rise jeans. I have don't own anything with an Aeropostale label on it. And I'm certain I don't own a pair of high-heeled leather boots.

Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck goddamn it to hell.

I got this pain in my gut. I looked at the clothes, then back at the Sharpie heart tag. The number 16, for some reason, left me feeling a bit sick to my stomach. I couldn't, wouldn't...no, there's no way...

Continuing my hangover forensics, I located a purse on the floor. I hate the idea of even sticking my hand into a woman's purse, but, dammit, I'm not going to sit in my own house terrified I may have something in common with R. Kelly. Unless I was slipped a micky, there's no way in hell my moral compass could've gotten that far off balance.

I notice the stereo playing in my living room and somebody singing along to Johnny Horton's Honky Tonk Man. There is also the smell of waffles in the air and frying veggie breakfast sausage.

I found an ID. Nope, not a Brandy and not 16. A emergency response personnel ID and a driver's lisense that reveals that whoever's singing downstairs is 33 years old, 5'7, and an organ donor. How the hell did I end up with a female firefighter in my house and what the flying fuck did I just do? At least I woke up in my own house and the bills in her purse weren't addressed to Mr. and Mrs.

Damn. This is going to be awkward. Its been years since I had to do this - the long march towards a post-stupor introduction.

Getting out of bed seems to be a problem. My ribs hurt; upon inspection, I seem to have a rather large bruise across my chest. I also notice that two of my knuckles seem to have been split open and are sore.

Dammit. What the hell did I drink? Only Jack Daniels puts me in the mood to get into a barfight - another one of those old bad habits I thought I'd outgrown long ago. Given the relatively mild look and feel of my hands, he obviously had a glass jaw. I just hope it wasn't somebody I know.

Charles Bukowski, wherever you are in the afterlife, you can kiss my ass. At least there's no classical music playing and I'm not in a flophouse with a hooker.

At least I was pleasantly surprised when I went downstairs. Apparently, this woman had driven me home in her pick-up ( a monster F-350 sitting in my driveway) and had the designated driver from the pub crawl drive my truck home. And, well, she was pretty darned cute. Reminded me of this actress, Karen Allen, circa Animal House. Dead ringer.

Damn brunettes with slate-blue eyes. Damn them all. But it could've been a lot worse. The last time this happened, I was a grad student in Baton Rouge and the person rooting around in my kitchen made Forest Gump look and sound like a Nobel laureate. I spent the morning of my 25th birthday playing along with an LSU junior who thought I believed her whole I'm a law school student story.

No, she was one smart cookie - we had a rather normal, uniteresting conversation about shopping for miter saws at Home Depot (I'm a DeWalt guy, she's a Makita gal) and the finer points of the recent change in Reds ownership and baseball's steroid problem.

She indicated that she thought I looked less like a Jason and more like someone who should go by his middle name. I noticed my LIS degree was sitting on the kitchen table, as opposed to the shelf in the living room where it normally rests.

Guys aren't the only ones who use CSI-style skills in the aftermath of a one night stand. Any guy who thinks otherwise obviously knows less about women than I do.

That's just what it was. It's usually easy to figure that kind of stuff out within the first ten minutes of post-stupor conversation. Nothing good ever comes out of a drunken fling - not the basis for a healthy relationship, which is what I'm really after, in the long run.

Honestly, I've been around the block enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon of meaningless flings. I'm dissappointed in myself, but I've been in worse situations. At least this fling made a point of making sure I made it home okay and stuck around long enough to help fill in the blanks.

For some reason, I don't feel like beating myself up over it, because, well, she was cute and seemed like a nice person. And she made waffles.

Bruises and busted knuckles? Some asshole made a comment about some girl asking to be raped because of how she was dressed. Apparently, there are guys who think any group of women walking through a dark alley are fair game for groping and unwanted cat calls. I can barely tolerate that kind of behavior sober, much less intoxicated. Apparently, even drunk, I tried walking away, but he punched me in the ribs.

The guy did have a glass jaw. Two punches and out like a codeine addict. No drunken brawl. Probably split my knuckles on the silver spoon sticking out of his mouth.

Normally, I'd be beating myself up over the whole thing. Why I didn't just go home after a six-hour drinkfest with coworkers is beyond me. Some regrets, but no need for unnecessary punishment. I regret the fighting part, but not the motivation behind it. I really regret not making better decisions, but, like I said, it could've turned out much worse. I realize I was very lucky this time.

C'est la vie.

Five Great Mysteries Behind This Blog...Another FAQ to Pass the Time

I've gotten a lot of e-mail since I started this sucker back in May 2005. Over the course of a few months, the style of writing has changed, the content, and there have been several different layouts.

I figured I'd better do an updated FAQ because I've started getting those pesky "you're not really a..." type e-mails again.

1. What I Do Professionally:
I am currently a librarian in southwestern Ohio, with an MLIS from Louisiana State University. I'm presently debating pursuing a Ph.D. in information science/intelligence studies and a Masters in Construction Management upon completion of my current position. While some library personnel specialize in building collections, building resumes, and building more bureaucracy, let's just say I specialize in building libraries - that's as detailed as I'm going to get. I don't work with books, databases, or do anything even remotely traditional in terms of being a librarian. There are, at last unofficial count, only about a dozen librarians in North America who does what I do for a living.

2. Why I Don't Talk about Librarianship Much:
Well, because most of the professional literature covers in such nauseatingly boring detail. I'm a firm believer in the principle of "go where the user is." Some people get a lot out of reading literature; I have to directly observe behaviors, mannerism, study speech patterns, and see levels of discomfort/comfort for myself to get an understanding of user needs. I've met folks at conferences who are completely right on in terms of understanding users but have no clue how to interact with the ones in their own back yard.

3. Why I am so Concerned with Political Issues in Places like Sub-Saharan Africa:
My research interest. I have no push to publish right now, so I do it as a hobby. It is my firm personal belief that finding practical solutions to the social and digital divides on the global, national, and local level is the key to achieving a more stable international climate. No human structure on this planet exists in a vacuum, especially not libraries, archives, museums, and other information repositories.

4. Why do I not post about the more everyday things in your life:
I post about whatever comes to mind when I'm sitting at a keyboard. Sadly, I try to blog about what goes on in my daily life. I'm more careful, I think, than most bloggers about posting personal information because:

(a) I've had a total of two cyberstalkers.
(b) Posting about hanging out with an adult entertainer became a major distraction at work, as apparently quite a few people witnessed she and I out and about here in Oxford.
(c) Yes, I know a few famous people, thanks to my media days. I've interviewed quite a few of them. I've been to cocktail parties with them. I've even had one buy me breakfast. My own brief 15 minutes felt like an eternity because I didn't respect my own need for privacy.

I'm also acutely aware that, unlike a lot of bloggers, there are locals who read this site, who know who I am and where I work. That's fucking creepy sometimes; other times, it's kind of neat and even downright amazing.

I'm very well-aware that my life is somehow interesting to some people, but I like to keep some things private. I don't blog about work-related business; if I do, it's rather inconsequential stuff.

5. Why I write so much about relationships and don't give sexual details:
Because healthy relationships fascinate me. Quite frankly, women fascinate me. I've spent a good portion of my adult life in and out of extremely dangerous, unhealthy relationships, so I'd kind of like to get a n idea of what, exactly, I've been doing wrong for the last decade and what, exactly, I've been doing right.

If you're waiting for me to start giving intimate details beyond simply implying certain activities, it's not going to happen. And I'm never going to blog about certain things, especially if they would embarrass other people involved.

And while this may sound pretty arrogant, I've never had any physical problems regarding intimacy. I may not know how to read signals or figure out the whole relationship thing, but I figured out the secret to mindblowing sex a long time ago - communication. Hell, everybody has to be good at something.

ZENFORMATION PLAYLIST, Feb. 7, 2006: Ghettopunkerlibrarian with a taste for Scenester-Killing Comic Nerd Speed Metal

1. I Want to Conquer the World - Bad Religion, No Control, Epitaph, 1989)
One of my favorite Bad Religion songs. Great driving song.

2. Send His Love to Me - PJ Harvey, To Bring You My Love, (Island, 1995)
You know, I would've killed to have sex with Ms. Polly Jean when this album came out. 11 years later, yup. Still feel the same way. Its the voice. And the eyes. Dammit. I'm a sucker for a great voice and eyes.

3. Cop Killer - Body Count, Body Count, (Sire, 1992 )
I used to love cruising around my hometown cranking this out of this old Chevy Celebrity (my first car.) For some reason, Ice-T's metal band scared the crap out of anybody over the age of 40, especially when a car full of guys of various ethnicities cruised through town slowly.

Damn, that's such a silly memory. Eminem, eat your heart out. I'm happy to say Ice-T is still one hardcore bastard of an actor. Who the hell remembers that Dan Quayle guy anyway?

4. March of the SOD - S.O.D. (Stormtroopers of Death), Speak English of Die(Megaforce 1995)
One of my idols growing up was Scotty Ian (at left, with Public Enemy's Chuck ), that lovable, goateed bald guy from the metal band Anthrax. S.O.D. was one of his side projects - a band so completely un-PC, talented, and brutal. (C'mon - one of their songs was titled Pre-Menstrual Princess Blues. A speed metal track.)

I used to worship the guy. Ian is a guitar god with a since of humor, a comic book collection, and probably a closet full of Chuck Taylors. Whenever I see one or more Emo kids moping together, I have to put on some speed metal.

5. Propaganda - Dead Prez, Let's Get Free (Relativity, 2000)
Dead Prez, quite frankly, is one of the most important political rappers in the history of hip-hop. A strong black voice in a world of bling and sell-outs. I prefer rappers who work to better their communities, not those who seek to move to the damned Hamptons to hob-knob with Martha Stewart.

6. See Ya Later Fuckface - The Queers, Pleasant Screams (Lookout!, 2002)
MP3 Available at Lookout! Site
This is one of my all-time favorite songs on one of my all-time favorite punk albums. I play it in the office, in the car, and I played it three times today alone. It was at a Queers concert that I got into my last mosh pit - punk shows, alas, have become more of a scenester-inspired fashion show than actually having fun. When the Queers started singing this one song, it brought a punker tear to my eye to see a group of high school aged punk kids (one girl had a real, honest-to-god mohawk as opposed to that trendy fauxhawk thing) turn around and start screaming this song into the face of these 20-something fratboy types. Why get into another pit? That's as pleasant a retirement gift as a veteran pitbull can get.

7. Drop the Attitude Fucker - The Queers, Beat Off Lookout!, 1993)
Two Queers songs in a row? Hey, its my blog and I'll post what I want, dammit.

8. Mushaboom - Feist (MC DJ Dirty Remix)
MP3 available here - MC DJ's Blog
This is just really neat. A blogger takes a hot Canadian underground act, remixes it, and throws the resulting beautiful mess online. Is that DJ Rob Base I hear in the loop? Damn...that's smooth.

9. Yesterday is Here - Tom Waits, Frank's Wild Years(Island, 1990)
I'm pretty sure it's illegal in the state of Ohio to listen to Tom Waits and speed metal in the same sitting. But hey...to each their own. I've melted down this CD so many times I had to finally rip this song to MP3.

10. Rifle Eyes - cLOUDDEAD, Ten (Mush, 2004)
MP3 available here
One of my favorite acts of the last few years, cLOUDDEAD (at left) is a hip-hop collective that offers an alternative to the worthless bling culture.

Mush Records has an awesomely ecclectic back catalog. Even if you hate hip hop, I'm sure there's something for everyone here.

POLITICAL DATING SERVICES:Nothing Says Bad Lovin' like Ideologically-Driven Romance

I had just finished reading Crash Patterson's excellent piece on the the concept of framing as applied to politics.

And then, during my morning web surfing, I stumble across this. I haven't laughed at something so completely insane in a long time.

I'm all for dating people with whom I share interests. But political leanings are so far down the damned totem pole in terms of compatibility. I don't care how desperate I get, I refuse to date a woman simply because she votes the way I vote.

Just warms my heart to see yet another online matchmaking site clogging up the World Wide Web. But Act for Love seems to be more of a political fundraising tool than anything else.

Yeah. Nothing says "liberal activist" to me like bunch of single people searching for true love AND forking over funds to another worthless, disunified Leftist PAC.

I'm naturally resistant to what appear to be lobbyists telling me what causes I should or should not support. I'm certainly not going to trust them to find me a date.

I'm sure there are similar sites on the Right (for instance...this one), praying on the checkbooks of politically-minded singles, just as Act of Love seems to be doing.

I guess I'm a swing dater. I'm attracted to women that go beyond silly conservative and liberal labels. And - gasp! - I've even been involved with women who are completely apathetic to issues near and dear to my heart.

It's the interplay between two personalities that matters the most to me. I don't think I'd ever be comfortable dating someone who describes themselves in terms of ideology. And I've met too many "liberal activists" in my time who measure action in terms of the number of times they've preached to the choir.

When I lived in Baton Rouge, an older friend set me up on a date with an aide to an ultra-conservative state legislator. Despite the fact that we had nothing in common other than a taste for zombie flicks and the Ramones, we still had loads of fun dancing down at the legendary Tabby's Blues Box. It didn't work out, but we had fun, despite our numerous political and ideological differences.

Needless to say, "activist dating" is, yeah, not a turn-on for me.

I used to think I was destined to be single for a long, long time. But, well, I'm pretty sure I'll finish ahead of ideologues looking for love in all the wrong places.


TECHNORATI TAGS:
Dating, Politics, Republicans, Democrats, ideologues, Romance, World Wide Web

Of Mice and Mustard Seeds:Even Thomas Merton felt lost every once and a while...

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

- Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude (1956)

Faith, as it represents to billions of people around the world, is something very near and dear to my heart. It is something more beautiful than a million perfect sunsets; it is a power, when wielded by the unjust, more destructive than a million nuclear weapons.

Last night, I talked to an old friend about a difficult choice she now must make. It is not so much about choosing the path towards continued emotional abuse and torment - for anybody that has been a victim of such things, that path leads to nowhere.

Choosing the path towards a better life, free of such torment, is always the hardest choice in the world. Anyone who says otherwise has obviously never had to make such a choice.

I'm a huge fan of clergy like Thomas Merton, one of the 20th century's great peacemakers and preligious thinkers. I posted this once or twice a while ago, but a few years ago I actually contemplated going to seminary and becoming an Episcopal priest. Sometimes, I think the fact that I do have faith in something beyond myself scares the crap out of people.

In 1998, I was in an extremely bad relationship, a relationship that fed two things. First, my girlfriend at the time, an extremely abusive alcoholic and addict, fed my desire to feel loved back by someone I loved. Secondly, being involved with a stripper who also had a drug problem fed my need for more and more cocaine, angel dust, and other substances.

That's right, kids. I said cocaine. I said angel dust. If there are colleagues reading this who want to huff and puff about a professional admitting they once had a substance abuse problem, fee free. I refuse to be embarrassed about it.

I'm proud to say I've been clean for eight years this August. Going cold turkey, a la Trainspotting, is probably the single greatest accomplishment of my life, if for no other reason than the fact that it gave me my life back.

On a hot August afternoon in 1998, I was sitting on a curb outside of my apartment. My then-fiance was sitting in the back of a police cruiser for trying to kill me. The officer taking my statement asked me if there were any other narcotics in the apartment, other than the stuff they had found under the mattress.

He told me I could come clean or he's search for me. So we walked back into the apartment, took the back off of the toilet, and I proceeded to flush about $2,000 worth of narcotics down the drain. The officer asked if I was a Christian; I said no, yet he insisted on praying with me anyway.

While waiting for the domestic violence couselor to show up, he explained why he'd let me flush and why he'd insisted on praying. The officer explained, in detail, about how an abusive alcoholic father had called him fat fuck as a term of endearment, how he'd started drinking beer as a kid, married an emotionally abusive woman, and finally hit rock bottom himself and reclaimed his own life.

When he showed me his Al-Anon sobriety pin, 20 years dry, I wanted to cry. But I just promised to consider changing my life. That was all it took.

After I talked with the DV counselor, I paged my best friend. He decided - for me - that I could no longer live like I lived. Within 48 hours, he'd found about 15 people to come move me out of my place, convinced me to move a thousand miles away to California, and moved me temporarily into his apartent.

Faith is, in the end, a powerful thing. It was the officer's faith in the power of a simple choice that kept me out of jail. It was my friend Chewie's faith in me that forced me to make those hard, simple choices.

But it was having the faith of a mustard seed, a little faith in myself, that kept me going. It's what forced me to address the fact that, in 2003, I'd fallen in another abusive, potentially fatal relationship. It's what forced me to finally begin to get comfortable in my own skin again.

A little faith goes a long way.

To the friend in question (and I know she reads and I know she'll know who I'm talking about) Miz Bohemia, Kendra (hope work has been going better, chica), and anybody else out there who may need a pick-me-up, the Thomas Merton prayer is one of my favorite reads when times get tough.

Its a reminder that even 20th century Trappist monks needed to do some soul-searching to figure out their own whos, whats, whys, and hows. Religious stuff aside, it's a pleasant reminder of how human everybody is, even in the cold, dark void of cyberspace.

THE ZENFO PRO IS NOT IN RIGHT NOW, SO PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE:When Duty Calls, Life Can Get Interesting

Let me be the first to say that, while I enjoy my job, sometimes work sucks.

Deadlines suck.

Double and triple booking yourself by mistake sucks.

Over-extending yourself sucks.

Realizing that those "weeks" ago you planned on asking this one woman out has become two monthsand that she has since rekindled her relationship with the ol' boyfriend....sucks.

Being single and a professional in this town...sucks.

Missing your chance, then realizing you have a professional function to attend after said shot-down-in-flames moment, one that requires a shower, sportscoat, and a quick shave....really sucks.


* * * *

A girl came up to me today at work. She just stared at me, squinting. I'm smoking a cigarette, trying to enjoy the brief foray into sunshine, patrons hurrying in and out of my library.

And she just stares at me.

For five minutes.

The girl looked really pissed. No clue who it is.

I finish, walk back into the building. She follows me into the elevator. I figure I'm either going to get beaten to death with Uggs or simply continue to be gassed by her excessive perfume.

Then she asks me, finally, why I quit calling her and if I'd gotten back with some sorority girl named Lisa. She tells me she's okay with that, she's moved on with her life, and she's been sleeping with my roommate to get back at me.

One, I don't have a roommate. Two, I was sure I'd never met this woman before in my life.

I got off the elevator on my floor and I could just feel eyes burning a hole through my skull.

When I got back to my office, I realized that I had indeed met her before. I had to go back into my November archives to match the face....

If I ever meet my doppelganger in this here tiny town, I'm kicking his ass.

* * * *

Three students have invited me to something called the Charter Ball.

What the hell is a charter ball?

And why have the last four e-mails I've received been from different girls whose first names all end in the letter i?


* * * *


Need to give a shout-out to Alice for the online chat the other night. It really cheered me up. That has actually been the highlight of my week.

See. There are folks who know how to play nice with Yahoo! IM. Even if they don't like it.