ON BEING THE "DANGEROUS" LIBRARIAN: Oxford Fucking Ohio's Scandalous Blog Mild Compared to Life in the Local Higher Education Underground

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I first became conscious of the darker side to being an "outed" blogger more than a year ago.

I'm very aware of the fact that, living and working in a socially conservative community, one where even the bulk of supposed progressives are nothing more that Limousine Liberals with doctorates and a crumbling Ivory Tower to shield them from reality, there are numerous folks who find this blog scandalous.

There are people who cringe every time they read, afraid of what dirty little secret I may post about, downright terrified that I may write about some skeleton in the closet.

I'm not talking about my personal life here, either.

* * * *

What if, for instance, I ever get around to writing a post about the prevalence of drugs like OxyContin and cocaine in the local Higher Education Underground?

I've met students, off-campus and outside of work, who are more than willing to volunteer information about their estimates of usage. I have yet to experience a weekend during the school year where I don't run into at least five or six hardcore drug users - and that number almost always includes young white women from affluent families.

Pot? Please. That's as ingrained in Higher Ed culture as overpriced textbooks. But drugs like "hillbilly heroin?"

Hell, I once found an eight-ball of meth outside of a bar, laying on the ground. I'd watched as a young woman accidentally dropped it while digging through her purse. One of her party told her she's dropped something, and the girl, looking down, said loudly, It's only an eighth.

Only an eighth of Tweak? Wow. (Flushed, by the way.)

Now that's scandalous.

* * * *

Or what about that post I could write about the so-called Landis Affair. Back in 2004, a male student went on trial for the rape of female student - after he'd been allowed back on campus and the Local U. "accidentally" failed to notify campus residents that, well, there was a convicted sexual predator re-enrolled at the ol' Public Ivy.

Wow.

No clue why students and local residents would suspect a cover-up. It's not like there's a letter from U.S. Department of Education from ten years ago floating around on the Internet, documenting a history of "accidental" failures to adequately document crime statistics or anything...

In all fairness, the Local U. has taken steps to address this issue and, thanks to initiatives launched by a new administration, there could be at least a glimmer of hope ... for the Class of 2017.

* * * *

I once learned from a blog reader that they'd overheard colleagues gossiping about the ol' blog and how potentially dangerous I am because of how I live my life and what I post about on this silly thing.

Wanna talk dangerous?

Here's a figure from the offline world of Oxford Fucking Ohio's dangerous blogger.

Privately, I've heard as many as 10 tales involving suspected acquaintance rape a month since I became more open and public about my blog persona. I hear similar tales offline as well.

Rape Culture? Lord, given what I've heard, we may be building a Rape Civilization. A while back, while following Cooper's stellar commentary over the Duke Lacrosse scandal, the first thing that came to mind was it's not a question of if that could happen here, but when.

It's been two months since I received the last one. While I'm hopeful that this may be an indicator of a decline in the violence against young women - and men - in this community, I'm not holding my breath.

Because of this, I keep contact information regarding Oxford's Community Counseling and Crisis Center, the Local U.'s Women's Center, and various other community resources handy at all times.

And, well, don't get me started on the recent closing of the local Planned Parenthood.

Fortunately for those local residents with access to transportation, there are still clinics in the area. But for the community's poorest residents, the ones without cars or who are too young to legally drive, well...

* * * *

Recently, several readers and blog friends have inquired about my employment status.

There's apparently a rather malicious rumor floating around town, one where I've been summarily fired from my position because of this ol' blog, a rumor that speculates that I've been forced out because of the sometimes controversial subject matter.

Rest assured. I'm still here in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

Actually, I just accepted a reappointment for a fourth year at the ol' ZenFo Pro Library.

But that acceptance is not without controversy. Friends are shocked that I'd voluntarily choose to turn down non-librarian job offers, all of which involved more money, to continue living in, as my own mother describes it, a pitiful excuse for a college town.

I had an ex who, upon learning that I'd turned down an offer in Los Angeles for almost triple my salary, sent me a rather long email detailing her belief that I've completely lost my fucking mind. One friend accused me of settling for babysitting rich kids rather than risk a job change.

So why would I choose to stick around for one more year, anyway?

Here's a hint. It has nothing to do with the job.

* * * *

Rather than come up with some lengthy explanation, some pointless diatribe about some mystical dedication to Higher Education and scholarship, I'm going to do something a bit different.

For those who've emailed me at any time over the past, oh, six months, you may have noticed a rather substantial delay in my response time in regards to anything related to this blog's content. That's because I prioritize responses based, first, on a reader identifying themselves as either a local or "regular" at my library, followed by fellow bloggers that I've known for a while, and then by random lurkers or commenters.

I've tried to figure out some way of demonstrating the kinds of communiques, via instant messaging, texts (for those who have my personal number), email, and even random Post-its left on my office door or my truck.

I recently realized that I was keeping too much blog-related ephemera, a violation of a personal blogger philosophy dating back to the days when I actually had time to do Zenformation Mail posts.

While deleting, overwriting, and shredding the various notes, I collected a few samples to provide folks with a sampling of the kind of "mail" I've received from Local U. readers since the beginning of Fall Semester 2006 (I apologize for not correcting typos):

If I had teachers like you when I was a student there I wouldn't have transferred. But they fire all the good ones. What up dude?

Every time i read this thing i get pissed. i seriously want to kick your teeth in. fuck you.

Thank you so much for helping me with my capstone project last summer. I know you're not [student's subject specialist] but I just thought you could help because you seem to know what its like to be a student. That's awesome. Never change!

i hope they fire your sorry ass and your sucking dick down with the niggers in Cincinnati fucker.

I just wanted to say hey and make a suggestion. Somebody really needs to talk about women's safety here. I love your style and hope the boneheads here don't give you trouble in the bars in uptown.

...when i came to college i was expecting to do like my brother and have a chance to hang out and socialize with my professors outside of class. but they don't do that here. it should be against the law to teach and then fucking blow off students. i can't even get in to see my adviser but shes a bitch anyway...

hey r u gonna talk about how fucking retarded it is that ppl won't shut the fuck up in the quiet study in [the ZenFo Pro library]? i'm sitting here trying to write a paper and i'm about to choke these chicks next to me...

go shelve sombooks or something. the library is stupid. and all ya'll that work there are gay.

How do I file a complaint about being charged for a lost Ohiolink book? hello! beer money :)

hey j. um this is stupid but theres a guy who works for you that my roomate thinks is totally hot. could i get his number or would that get u in trouble?

Okay random question. Is it true that all guys like anal? i've been seeing this guy for a while and i want to try it but he says that would make him gay. Is that true?

when are ya goin to post about all the other shit? my friend [NAME WITHHELD] said she talked to you about sexual assault and how ppl think they cover it up for enrollment. whats up?

hey we met the other nite. can we hang out or will you get fired?

DRUNK BITCHES KICK ASS FAGGOT

Dear Zenpro :) I just wanted to say that after I had some problems last semester reading your blog really made me feel better about being different at [Local U.] I don't know if you care or not but I am a rape survivor. u can share that just don't use my name. It was so hard just getting through that and I just wanted you to know that you make me laugh sometimes and the thing you wrote about standing up for those high school girls really hit home for me...

Hi. Are you an alcoholic?

FK U BLOGBOY

Dear Zenformation Pro: I graduated from [Local U.] in 1996. I can't tell you how much my wife and I enjoy your web site. It's a much needed source of information for alumni who remember when student life in Oxford Fucking Ohio was so much different than it is today. I'm actually glad the students have someone like you to remind them that college is only part of life and that the world doesn't revolve around them. Keep up the good work.

Hi and thanks for responding so quickly. Will I get into trouble though if i request the book? i know you say i won't but i don't want people to make fun of me who work there.

what the hell do single guys do in this fucking town, man?? If i don't meet a normal girl in the next week i'm gonna go blind. you know what i mean.

Fuck those drunk Northface bitches. you need to date a western girl.

I often have folks ask me if I'm ever worried about retaliation for some of this blog's content, or if I'm concerned with pissing people off to the point where I could end up hurt. In all honesty, I worry about offending people in real life more than I worry about offending local blog readers.

The ones I've met in person, at least these days, are really cool about the whole thing. Often, whenever I post something about life in Oxford, they're the first to IM me, usually after last call at the bars on Thursdays or Fridays, asking me if I've gotten any negative feedback.

You know, it's amazing how many students are damned shocked to discover that I'm still up past last call and, hell, I'm usually just getting back home myself at three in the morning on the weekends...

* * * *

And if you were to ask me who reads this thing, what type of local fits the Zenformation Professional profile, well, your guess would be as good as mine. I'm constantly shocked. There isn't a profile, really, though I will go out on a limb and say that, well, they tend to be more responsible, well-rounded, and intelligent that the stereotype of the Local U. student held by many people in the region.

Hell, even the Townies from the various surrounding townships are way too hot and friggin' smart for their own good.

* * * *

Recently, I even guessed wrong when I assumed that someone I just figured fit the profile read this thing.

I ended up giving her the URL and, lord, I hope to God she's not judging me too harshly.

A student employee at my library. She'd made a few comments about my personal life that, well, kinda led me to believe that she was a lurker...

Dammit. She fit the profile...

* * * *

I also discovered that a young woman who spends an ungodly amount of time in my library, who I've seen almost every day for two years, reads this thing. I caught her just as she was closing her laptop as I walked by this morning.

I asked her, point-blank, why she was bothering to read this damned site, why she wasn't off being a supermodel or something. To be honest, I don't think I've seen a patron turn that red in a long time.

But, hey, she looked like the kind of woman the world needs as a supermodel - surrounded by stacks of books, decked out in sweats and a ratty tee shirt, and, well, looking like a real, un-artificially tanned human being.

That's called learning, kids. And learning is pretty damned sexy.

Anybody remember that Information is Power poster?

Made my friggin' month.

She said she liked it. And I'm funny. And real.

I left it at that, but told her she could always stop by my office if she needed some help. And to not spend so much time sleeping on the couches on the second floor, to get out and suck the marrow out of her college experience.

Information overload's a GPA killer. Trust me.

I'm not only a blogger; I'm also a real, honest-to-God information professional.

Seriously.

* * * *

There is a dark side to being an "outed" blogger in a small college town. Fortunately, its not the blog readers and its not my colleagues, who've been more than accommodating in terms of my rather, er, interesting writing style.

Why am I still here, anyway? Why not just leave, or do like most educated people who work here and choose the hour's commute from Cincinnati or Dayton over life in Oxford Fucking Goddamn Ohio?

I guess that I just don't like the idea that there are people who believe that I can be chased out of anything, simply because I choose to live (and document) my personal life as I see fit.

I realize that there are folks who loathe this site, who wish I'd just go away, or that I'd turn this thing into a "Hi my name is Jason and this is what I did at work today" kinda blog.

Ain't happening.

Feel free, however, to hold your breath, organize a mass suicide in protest, or to, well, kiss my ass while you're waiting for hell to freeze over and for me to change who I am to accommodate a few critics.

I'm sticking it out in Oxford because, well, I can do whatever I want. It's a free country.

For one more year, at least, you'll be dealing with one dangerous, scandalous librarian who blogs about anything and everything, live from a tiny little town in southwestern Ohio. And it probably won't be pretty, either.

Hell, I readily admit that my personal life's a car crash in a lonely desert, a regular bitch and a half. Trust me, that's more than can be said for half the "grown-ups" in this town. I refuse to live in a world of whispered secrets, one where maintaining an image is more important that being one's self.

Besides...

Somebody's gotta be the scholarly troublemaker. And what's a small college town without a heapin' dose of trouble, anyway?

I kinda like being considered one of the most dangerous people in this here corner of the middle of fucking nowhere.

Just for being my normal, everyday, tequila-swillin', chainsmokin', chatty, flirtin', punk music listenin', guitar-pickin', bloggin' librarian.

That's fucking badass.

# # #

BLOGS DON'T BET ON PEOPLE & NEITHER DO I: Playing the Odds, Early Morning Phone Calls, and Other Lustful Things

MOOD MUSIC:

Halloween (Cousin Cole v. Flufftronix Remix 2007) [MP3]
- The Misfits
[Original Artist, 1981 Plan 9 Records]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It took me a few minutes to figure out who was on the other end of the phone call. Not many folks call me so early in the morning, not unless the caller just happens to know that I'm usually up by five Eastern.

The sound of the cell vibrating across the kitchen table scared the shit out of me. I was barely through my first cup of coffee, barely finished eating my first Lean Pocket.

Though I'm sure the caller knew I answered, the other end fell silent, a disconnect. I wrote it off as a dropped call or, probably, a wrong number. I looked at the caller ID - didn't even recognize the area code.

Two minutes later, the phone went off again, and this time I caught it on the first ring.

"This is Jason."

"Hey, Fucknut."

"Uh, hey yourself."

"It's just me. _______ gave me your new number."

* * * *

Given the fact that, well, I'd never expected to hear "Tonya's" voice ever again, I sank to the floor, cigarette and cup o' joe in hand. I don't know if I was excited or shocked or upset or merely caught up in some early morning daydream. The room was spinning.

The only thing I could muster after an awkward pause was an exaggerated Oh, hey chica!, as if I were talking to some colleague about space planning or some female friend locally about plans for the weekend.

Deep down, I guess I knew that the phone call wasn't exactly one of those simple, friendly calls.

* * * *

It was clear, within five minutes of talking, that "Tonya" was drunk as a skunk. She slurred her words and apologized numerous times for being a little wasted.

Upon realizing that she'd miscalculated the time difference, she abruptly hung up, called back, hung up again, and finally, after one more call, believed me when I told her that I was already awake and that I was, indeed, alone and woman-free.

She was calling from a motel room somewhere out in Vegas and had just gotten in from a night on the town. Two of her friends had talked her into finally using up her Frequent Flier Miles on a Girls' Only vacation- they were still out on the Strip, enjoying the trip. And drunk "Tonya" was alone in the hotel room, talking on the phone to yours truly.

Her husband had moved out of the house back in January. The divorce was to be finalized as soon as the attorneys negotiated a fair division of assets.

Tonya's daughter was staying with her brother and his wife. Apparently, the split had gotten so bad that the only thing she and her soon-to-be ex could agree on without attorneys present was the importance of keeping the kid out of it...

As Tonya explained her situation, I couldn't help but feel guilty. But I didn't feel guilty because of what happened back in December. I felt guilty because I didn't feel one ounce of sincere remorse.

I felt guilty because, well, when one plays a part in another's train wreck of a life, that's how one should feel.

But, at the end of the day, passion, to me, is passion. People lose control when sexual attraction is combined with the momentary alignment of body, soul, and a deep-rooted past - happens all the time.

Of course, being single, I have the luxury of believing such things.

* * * *

"Tonya" started to nod off midway through the conversation. She did explain that her guilt, too, was more akin to mine; she'd called not because she was looking for some scapegoat but because she just thought I'd like to know that it wasn't my fault, just in case I heard it from someone else.

We finished our conversation as the sun rose and my tiny apartment filled with gray light. She asked if she could ever call me again, if I hated her, and if I thought she was somehow an evil person for giving up on her "perfect" marriage in order to finally live life again.

I told her that she was always welcome to call.

But I couldn't answer her other questions. I just couldn't find the words. I wasn't sure if she was looking for affirmation, for strength, or for condemnation. So I chose the straight and narrow path instead.

"Fuck it, chica. What are ya gonna do?"

* * * *

That was four weeks ago.

Since that morning, I've talked to "Tonya" a few more times on the phone and a couple of times online. She even sent me a picture, courtesy of her nifty camera phone.

Honestly, in hindsight, it's not too difficult to figure out why I was so damned willing to simply ignore the fact that, well, she was married at the time of our romp in a cheap motel.

Looking at the pic, I can actually remember the taste of her skin, can smell what she calls her "Born on the Rez" scent floating through my apartment.

[NOTE - That's about the only hint towards "Tonya's" actual ethnicity that I'm going to post online. I guess I need to clarify that only about a third of the women I've posted about on this damn thing would fit the WASPish stereotype associated with this region. Many Ohio readers naturally assume I'm discussing affluent "white" women, based on Oxford Fucking Ohio being known, nationwide, as being one of the least diverse campus communities in the America. ]

Online, we spent more time swapping mp3s (we share a favorite Misfits song [Mp3] and she recently discovered that, yes, GWAR makes great Soccer Mom Repellent at the gym) and arguing about how much growing up sucks than discussing her divorce or my "settling" for being a "pussy-ass librarian" instead of going back into media and image consulting.

And, well, it's been a while since I've had a conversation with a woman who's just as comfortable using words like cunt, twat, and hella in casual conversation as she is discussing her militant political libertarianism or her newfound love for Glock collecting / shooting (her Glock 20 weighs almost as much as she does; she could probably get by with a much lighter G26 - a great lil sidearm).

Nothing in the world like a woman who rides a skateboard to work, packs heat, and who, like yours truly, loves munching on soy chips while watching the original Dawn of the Dead.

* * * *

Faced with that kind of attraction, well, hell...

Give a shit about the whole adultery thing? Please. If I'd known how truly fucked up her marriage was, well, I would've suggested that we videotape the whole thing and send it to Sally Suckyfucky and her soon-to-be ex.

If you're gonna sleep with someone's spouse, it better be a goddamned marathon, especially if you're friends with the spouse in question.

Dislocated shoulders. Destroyed hotel room. Bottle of peroxide to clean the fingernail and teeth marks. Hell, I had finger imprints on my lower back for two weeks, a bruised pelvic bone, and...

Not that I'm bragging or anything.

Err...yeah.

I'm bragging. Who am I kidding?

* * * *

The last phone conversation lasted close to five hours.

It really is amazing what two people can find to talk about when, thanks to unlimited mobile-to-mobile minutes, even the cost of a transcontinental phone call becomes a non-issue.

It's equally amazing what two people can manage to not talk about in five hours, too.

For weeks, we'd both been skirting certain issues, certain Where is this going? and What the hell are we doing? discussions.

We spent more time discussing her Warped Tour plans (her daughter earns the honor of being Most Badass Preschool Kid, since she's excited that her mother will, against Stepdad's wishes, take her to see her favorite band, Bad Religion, this summer) and my work problems than anything involving our continued interaction.

* * * *

I flinched first.

At one point, we were discussing her having to fire one of her store managers - this metrosexual kid who was spending more time trying to get women's phone numbers than actually doing his job.

It started as a joke. I suggested that she make me an offer - I'd love a chance to actually get back into the private sector, where taking a user-centered approach to day-to-day client relations is given more than the often silly lip-service found in public sector librarianship.

She made me an offer, all right. Six grand more than my current salary, with benefits - including some other, more intimate perks. We talked about how cool it'd be to work together. That became a discussion about me possibly moving in with her, dumping everything I own and moving back west to be her partner.

I thought we were still having a lighthearted, in-a-perfect-world type discussion. "Tonya," however, was completely serious.

Whoa, chica.

I stopped her mid-sentence and indicated that I was uncomfortable planning out some imaginary future based on our past together and one quick - but meaningful - fling.

I also pointed out that, well, in the real world, it'd look absolutely horrible for the two of us to, well, jump right back into bed together at the same time her marriage was ending - public image aside, the impact such an act would have on her daughter could be devastating long term.

And how would her friends react? She has people in her life who think she's crazy for leaving her perfect, upwardly-mobile overgrown fratboy of a husband - I doubt they would exactly welcome me into her social circle.

And what about our families? My parents barely survived my engagement to a stripper and were devastated when they learned that, well, I've been involved with several women who work in the hardcore adult industry. I don't know what kind of reaction I'd get if I showed up for family get-togethers with a girlfriend who a)I used to tutor when she was 16, b) who I'd slept with before she'd even decided to leave her husband, and c) who also used to be a fellow coke addict.

Her family? It'd take a miracle for her father not to put a bullet between my eyes.

And I'm sure her ex-hubby would just love the idea of his ex-wife shacking with the guy she'd had an affair with - talk about a juicy piece of information for any potential custody battle.

Besides, I reminded her, what are the odds that this would work, anyway? We'd probably break up or kill each other in a year, tops.

* * * *

Silence.

She didn't say anything for more than two minutes, just made these oh-so-cute sounding noises she makes when she's thinking - or when she's seriously pissed - about something.

Yup. Pissed. She hung up without saying a word - no goodbye, no nothing.

* * * *

I didn't hear from her for more than a week after that. She calmed down and, well, finally came to the same conclusion I did.

Some things are not worth the gamble. And she'd be gambling a lot more than I would. I don't have a daughter, a soon-to-be ex who may or may not end up owning half of my business interests, a house that may end up being sold off as part of a divorce agreement, or friends I'm worried about losing.

Quitting my job and moving across country? Hell, wouldn't be the first time for me. But doing so for someone else, just because I could potentially, one day, fall in love enough to - Gasp! - move beyond being the Ex-Other Man wouldn't be the wisest move on my part.

There's no such thing as a movie ending in the real world. Maybe for some annoying suburbanite emo kid or Trustafarian, but not for anybody whose ever spent any amount of time studying at the esteemed School of Hard Fucking Knocks.

* * * *

We agreed to take some time away from communicating for a bit, to let whatever this lustful silliness is just die. The potential danger is, indeed, greater than either of us can really afford in our lives, at this point.

We do, however, have an agreement. A Fruitcake Sex Agreement, similar to this one.

If both of us are single next December, and if both of us just happen to be back in California after Christmas...

We're getting a room in the same motel. And we're not leaving until we're good and ready to leave. I'm thinking it could take days, maybe even a week.

* * * *

Goddamnit, dude. Wouldn't it be nice to just get involved with women who're single and uncomplicated?

You know, just once, to do the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, without having to worry about getting a motel room or husbands or ex-husbands or potential stepchildren or ... ?

# # #

ILL COMMUNICATION DEPT.: Madame Influenza Makes Me Her Bitch

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I can't remember last Wednesday.

Or much of Thursday, for that matter.

Friday? Kinda fuzzy - and not in a good way.

* * * *

It began last Monday. I was sitting in a local coffee shop, and I started to feel funny.

It started with a strange, sudden sensation, a burning sensation, just inside my left nostril. I'd noticed the dry cough earlier in the afternoon; I'd written that off as nothing more than dust from cleaning my desk at work. I was tired, downright physically exhausted.

At first, I thought I was just getting another cold. I can handle colds.

And then I remembered what the sensation meant.

For fuck's sake. I think I'm getting the goddamned flu.

I never get the goddamned flu...

* * * *

I spent most of last week bedridden, feverish, coughing and shivering, courtesy of Madame Influenza.

It's been years since I've been so ill that I couldn't get out of bed, more than 10 years since I last ran a fever above 103 F, 15 years since I last ran a temperature that high for more than a day.

I was teetering between hallucination and slight incoherence for 72 hours straight, with nothing more than acetaminophen / ibuprofen cocktails, cranberry juice, and ice cold yogurt to keep me sane.

At some point my brain went completely haywire - unable to focus or concentrate on anything. For three days, phantoms of long-forgotten memories blended with bits of movies and fragments of books.

My second grade teacher appeared out of the haze, then morphed into that creepy rabbit from Donnie Darko. I flashed back to being 15 and shooting myself in the foot with a nail gun, only in this fevered version I'd shot off my entire foot and flesh-eating zombies, a la George Romero, gnawed on the stump.

I felt seasick and dizzy as passages from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" played over and over again inside my head. Trust me. There is no worse poem for one to have stuck in a fevered brain than the Rime of the goddamned Ancient Mariner. (HTML version courtesy of the Samuel Taylor Coleridge Archive, Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia.)

At one point, my poor sick brain chose to obsess over the mathematical perfection of the Fibonacci Sequence, for some reason...

And I'd swear that Johnny Ramone rose from the grave just long enough to accuse me of being a communist-- and to make out with the mirage of a psycho ex that I haven't seen in years...

That's all I remember. Three days' worth of life gone, never to return.

I'm not even sure which day was which, actually.

* * * *

Thank goodness I have a decent enough immune system and that I'm in relatively good health most of the time.

The obscure math and literature I can handle. The obscure bits of film imagery melding with memories I can handle. But I don't think I could stomach watching one of my dead guitar heroes making out with T___ again.

Watching it in Fevervision, in vivid widescreen Technicolor, almost made me vomit.

She really did kiss like a bulldog sucks on a porkchop.

* * * *

By the time the fever and the visions had subsided, I started to realize that, well, you know, the whole thing could've (possibly) been avoided with just one trip to the doctor for a flu shot.

Not that I'd actually get one, but I could've gotten one.

Saturday, I celebrated St. Patrick's Day by shaving for the first time in a week, getting dressed, and leaving my apartment for the first time in four days.

The sun was shining, the air crisp and untainted by Madame Influenza. I went grocery shopping, replenished my supply of over-the-counter meds, and bought cigarettes.

And then I returned to my tiny apartment, crawled back into bed, and went to sleep.

In bed by six on a Saturday night. The sun was still shining as I let the nighttime flu medicine carry me away to Sleepyland.

* * * *

It's been one whole week since Madame Influenza decided that she wanted to dance.

We're still dancin', but I'm the one filling out the dance card. I should be back to full strength in the next few days.

I guess I was due for a good reminder that, well, it's the smallest of things in the world, things like viruses and bacteria, protons and neutrons, that truly control the universe.

And those small things, those microscopic titans, can make all of Mankind their bitch whenever they want.

- # # # -

AT HOME WITH THE ZENFO PRO: A Photographic Journey into Madness

The ZenFo Pro tests out his new used digital camera (left).

Note the gray tee shirt, as this indicates that the day this photo was taken was not a regular work day. The ZenFo Pro wears black tee shirts to work.

Just another guy, really.

* * * *

The paintings (above, right) are works done by the ZenFo Pro.

Live Oak, at far right, was painted using only fingers, cigarette butts, automotive primer, and the breasts of two former lovers, including the Italian Backpacker Fling last year. (Feel free to read Part 1 and Part 2 of that sordid affair.)

Err...

You know, turning a piece of plywood into a work of art using women's breasts does sound kinda hot, now that I think about it...

* * * *

The guitar, a 3/4 size acoustic (center, bottom), has been in my grubby little hands since my punk days. Paid $50 for the sucker in a pawn shop.

I've been picking on it quite a bit lately, channeling my inner Patrik Fitzgerald (samples at artist MySpace page) and butchering numerous classic punk songs.

What can I say?

I'm one strange dude.

* * * *

NOTE - Post partly inspired by the much missed Mizzy B and her groovy Bohemian influences on this blog, memories of Shayna's Half-Nekkid contributions prior to pregnancy, the Well-Dressed Librarian's classy at-home interview, and, of course, poor Steph taking one for the Swingin' Friends team in terms of free expression of sexual faux-pas.

- # # # -

JUST ADD SOAP AND WATER: Of Lucky Shaving Brushes and Being a 21st Century Drifter

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It first hit me, right between the eyes, while shaving one night.

I was standing over the sink, staring blankly into the steam-covered mirror in my tiny bathroom. It was early evening, and the sunset painted my entire apartment different shades of orange, violet, and auburn.

I stood there, rolling the tips of the boar's hair bristles across the handmade herbal soap, the sounds of the brush handle gently tapping the sides of the mug.

Lightnin' Hopkins' voice bellowed from the stereo in the bedroom.

Man, I said to myself, you're as old-fashioned as rye whiskey and water.

For some odd reason, that made me laugh. I went right back to singing along to the stereo, snickering as the water in the sink steamed and the soap bubbles tickled my chin.

Yes you know my mama told me, the day that I left the door/ She says you gonna have bad luck son, and I don't are where you go / I said just bring me my shotgun, boy you can bring just one or two shells / Yes if I don't get some competition, you know there's go to be trouble here...

* * * *

Yes, I shave with a brush and soap. I've tried using the fancy stuff, and I'll even use that canned crap if I'm forced. For years, I've come up with all sorts of justifications and excuses for it - it's better for the environment, it's more manly, it's a lost art...

Look, I just really enjoy a good shave. And I've never understood why other people find that so damned fascinating, particularly women.

One ex used to make a point of telling everyone she knew about it, almost boasting to her friends that I was some sort of Marlboro Man. When she finally told her boyfriend about who'd really been sleeping over during their (what did she call it?) rough patch, she even used my shaving habits as a rather batshit reason for her slip-up.

Another used to insist on watching from the toilet, fascinated that an Anglo guy groomed his face like her Mexican grandmother groomed her legs. She'd finish peeing, then sit there, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her palms, staring.

Like my grandfather had taught me years ago, I worked the lather up on my skin, not in the mug, twirling the bristles like a ballroom dancer.

I stared down into the sink, running blistering hot water over the brush, rewetting the bristles...

The brush...

* * * *

I realized that I was using my grandfather's brush, the one he received from one of his old Navy buddies back in '38, the gift from the guy who, according to legend, would later lose his life on a December morning on the island of Oahu, that date which has lived in infamy since 1941.

You know, there's a reason I consider that shaving brush my lucky brush. Through some act of fate, my grandfather died quietly in his sleep in a Virginia hospital in 1987 instead of 1941, one reassignment and decades away from his fallen comrades.

Because of its metaphysical associations, I usually only use it on special days. No one else is even allowed to touch the sucker. For some reason, however, on just another afternoon in Oxford Fucking Ohio, I'd chosen to wield the magical grooming tool.

Hmmm. Must be my lucky night.

The baked enamel finish keeps crumbling off the handle, the boar's hair thinning like an old man's, blonded and frail from nearly seven decades of service.

It has lathered soap on destroyers and at port, in places like Guam and Cairo and Norfolk, Virginia. The brush has foamed up mugs beside the Red Sea, in backwoods Louisiana and Arkansas, in Mojave Desert mobile homes and five-star hotels in Naples, Florence, and Rome.

It served my grandfather well, through his Navy and diplomatic days, through countless meetings with world leaders and other diplomats, monarchs and ministers, ambassadors and soldiers.

My grandfather taught me how to shave using this brush and a bladeless safety razor when I was five or six, back on the farm in Virginia. Since then, the brush has accompanied me on my own adventures in life.

I met my first Academy Award winner after a good, old-fashioned shave with the thing, my first Playboy Playmate (hint - she's funnier and much more savvy in person than you ever saw on MTV), first professional ballplayer, first governor, and my own first world leader.

That old shaving brush has camped with me in the Rockies, traveled across the I-10 Badlands of New Mexico and West Texas, prepared me for Mardi Gras revelry, and even cleaned me up for my interview for my first-ever job as a bonafide librarian.

* * * *

And that rather lurid, funny tale I once guest-posted over at Courting Destiny, the one about that oh-so-romantic conversation between me and an ex of mine while we lay naked in the back of a pick-up beneath the Wyoming sky?

The ex in that post often accused me of shaving with that lucky brush as a way of ensuring that I'd get lucky. And, in all honesty, she was probably right. Hell, she was the woman who used to insist on sitting on the toilet and staring every time I shaved, after all.

More often than not, I was almost 100 percent sure that I'd indeed get lucky if she heard the clank-clank of that brush in the mug and if I heard her scurrying out of bed for the bathroom, to go pee.

Err...I don't want to even think about the psychology involved.

The adult entertainer ex did the same thing. And so did...

Wait...

Err...

Would that be considered a slick move on my part?

Pffft....nah.

* * * *

I finished shaving that evening, just as the dusk stole away the sun's beautiful art. I carefully cleaned the lucky brush, changed CDs in the changer, putting on some Etta James to re-read Siegfried Sassoon poems and to thumb through the latest issue of Rolling Stone.

While I was shaving, I'd realized something about myself, something fascinating and mysterious. For some reason, though, I couldn't seem to put it into words. And that bugged me to no end.

And then it finally clicked like an empty revolver in some James Cagney flick.

What makes a man is not any one experience but the understanding that those experiences carry with them a certain appreciation of time, the finite nature of the often petty world Mankind has built for itself.

The whole of existence can be measured against something as simple as a good, slow shave. And something as simple as an old shaving brush can hold just as much sway over the course of generations as a thousand neutron bombs.

* * * *

Since I've lived in Oxford, I've often been asked why I choose to live by myself, why I never seem to be in a hurry to date anyone, why I don't seriously worry much about rushing to marriage or commitment or any of that shit, why I don't seem to ever feel truly alone in this world.

Why would I fret about any of that? Life's way too fucking short. That's why I take time to savor each and every moment alone, even when I'm staring into a steamy mirror at an increasingly battered-looking face, laughing to myself and listening to the blues.

Besides, I really am a bit of a drifter, one of those loner types who can, honestly, drop out of people's lives for years at a time, then show up at the most random times.

Man, I said to myself, you're as old-fashioned as rye whiskey and water.

There's always another shave around the corner. And even if that mystic shaving brush were to disintegrate tomorrow, I'd still have a million long, hot shaves' worth of memories.

Er...

Yeah...

I'd probably regret losing the ability to attract women with bladders tied to the damned thing, though.

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THE ZENFORMATION PLAYLIST 3/1/07: I (Still) Want To Be a Cowboy, Hardcore Tidbits, and a Very Punk Start to Women's History Month

Believe it or not, this is actually a work-related post. As my library's resident punk music expert, I often get the most random questions about the history of the genre, beyond what's offered in our collections. Blogwise, I've recently seen a spike in IMs dealing with the genre, thanks in part, I think, to these guys rocking the goddamned house. (I've seen them live a grand total of eight times in the last few months. Loud and proud, true disciples of the Hardcore Old School, I tell ya.)

- Jason

WHAT PRICE WOULD YOU PAY? [MP3]
Code of Honor, Seven-Inch release (Subterranean, 1982)
You know, I remember a time when it was okay for an American hardcore act to not whine about high school crushes, being socially acceptable outcasts, etc... when a bunch of punker kids could scream down with sexism, racism, and down with global warmongering without worrying about iTunes sales or looking pretty on Rolling Stone covers.

That's punk music, my friends.


MEDIA BLITZ [MP3 ]
The Germs, (GI) (Slash, 1979)
Joan Jett produced this classic album. And yes, that Pat Smear, that other guitarist from that MTV Unplugged set (look for the red, white, and blue guitar in this clip), that former Foo Fighters guitarist, holds a bigger place in the history of punk music than either Dave Grohl or Kurt Cobain.


JEAN IS DEAD
The Descendents, Milo Goes to College (New Alliance, 1982)
If you hold an advanced degree in anything and grew up listening to punk music, well, there's no explanation needed. Milo really did, as the album title suggests, go to college. He earned a doctorate. And he's still a punker.


THESE GIRLS FUCKED YOUR GIRLFRIEND
The Raging Rags, release status unknown
An opening act I caught at a punk show once or a dozen times when I was younger, one of the first all-female punk bands I ever saw live, in fact. I've had this song stuck in my head for some reason, off and on, for the past three months.

Let's put it this way: any guy who would dare say something as stupid as women can't rock obviously isn't a punk or hardcore aficionado. Guys like that tend to be, well, chaches. And, trust me, chaches don't get laid at punk shows. They tend to be way too fragile for punker women.


LIVING IN MADRID [MP3]
The Crowd, Beach Blvd., (split-artist LP, Posh Boy, 1979)
Ironically, I recently rekindled my love affair with this band, the original SoCal surf punks, while back in California for Christmas.


URBAN STRUGGLE
The Vandals, Peace Thru Vandalism (Epitaph, 1982)
One of my all-time favorite songs. My dad even likes it. C'mon...who doesn't want to be a cowboy?


POLITICAL SONG FOR MICHAEL JACKSON TO SING
The Minutemen, Double Nickels on the Dime (SST, 1984)
I may be the youngest person alive today who thinks that this is probably the single-most important punk concept album of all time. The Minutemen were the first band to turn a scene into a true art form, the guys who put refused to put punk back into the garage and instead took the garage to the masses. D. Boon died way too young, one of the greatest guitarists of 1980s.

For those who remember the listening to the song "Corona," way before those dudes from Jackass conscripted the opening riff for a silly TV show theme, check this awesome live acoustic version that some saint of a human being added to YouTube.


DOWN IN FLAMES [MP3]
The Dead Boys, Young, Loud, and Snotty (Sire, 1977)

For those of you who've never read her site, Kendra's one of the coolest chicks in librarianship. She has everything it takes to one day make a badass degree-certified librarian - she's a rabid Athletics fan, she has a pet Diva Piggy, and I'm actually jealous of her playlists.

Recently, she announced on her blog that she has breast cancer. But rather than accept defeat, to let the psychological effects of her diagnosis drag her down to the place where the human spirit is easily corrupted, she's taking the bull by the horns, ready to rassle the sucker to the ground. She's even planning on live blogging her chemo and doing her Library School homework, too.

Rather than post some sappy "oh, you poor dear" post, rather than simply include the sometimes overused cliches that, yes, tend to go along with breast cancer awareness posts during Women's History Month, I wanted to do something for Kendra that only a fellow (though retired) college radio god would understand.

I'm dedicating a song to her. And not just any song, either.

When I was overcoming my various narcotic addictions, when I was recovering from my PTSD, my first instinct was to let my woes run my life. But, each time, some song would come back into my life to remind me that, well, I'm in charge of my life.

"Shot Down in Flames" is one of those arrogant, snotty, downright balls-to-the-wall songs, the kind that just reminds people that attitude means something. One can be their own Alpha and Omega, can build their own manifest destiny out of nothing more than dedication, fortitude, and willpower.

I don't want Kendra to mope. I don't want anybody who may swing by to leave some silly comment with Bible verses or sympathy quotations or anything like that.

I don't just wish Kendra a quick recovery; I want her to stomp the livin' shit out of breast cancer. And I hope you do, too.

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