VIRGINIA HAS ALWAYS BEEN FOR LOVERS, BUT WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK ABOUT THAT:Thomas Jefferson, Sally Hemings...And The Bed That Made America

CHARLOTTESVILLE, Va. (ZP) -- The last time I stood inside of Thomas Jefferson's bedchamber, George H. W. Bush occupied the White House, Saddam Hussein had just been driven from Kuwait, and the Soviet Union was in the midst of its nervous breakdown.

Fall. Nineteen-Hundred and Ninety-One.

I'd just started eighth grade, all of 13 and already a troublemaker of some notoriety, and my Civics class was visiting the Founding Father's home as part of field trip.

And during that tour of Monticello, as I stood next to the bed of one of the greatest minds of the 18th century.

Principle author of the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia Statute of Religious Freedom. Founder of the University of Virginia. Third President of the United States.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fascinating stuff, really.

But I had a mission back in 1991.

I just had to, well, touch IT.

On this visit, while the tour guide rambled on about architecture and agriculture and life on the man's plantation, I just had to touch IT again.

Wait... IT?

* * * *

IT.

IT, as in, Thomas Jefferson's alcove bed.

The place where not only Jefferson slept, but...

... Probably, Sally Hemings as well.

* * * *

Everything's in that one bedchamber, unspoken and buried beneath every nail and plank, just about every aspect of the social fuckedupness that was Virginia pop culture, from 1607 through 1865. The three-fifths of a man horseshit, chattel slavery realities and plantation pipe dreams, the myths of racial superiority, inferiority, and eugenics, the utter insanity of the human concept of race itself.

And Jefferson's bed, well, represents the most controversial interracial relationship in U.S. history.

Hemings and Jefferson probably stole precious moments in that bed, clandestine kisses and witching-hour moments of foreplay, caught up in the blatant hypocrisy of Colonial and Post-Colonial North America.

IT's quite comfortable, actually.

Hell, I'd hook up with Tommy Boy in the sucker. Homeboy really knew how to design a built-in bed.

* * * *

I waited for my moment this time, waited for the tour guide to be distracted by some old lady from Madison, Wisconsin, or Peoria, Illinois, or Birmingham, England...

And then, when the time came, I reached right over the rope barricade, pushed my fist down into the replica down mattress, left my own wrinkles in the very fabric of American history.

Fall. The Year of Our Lord, Twenty-Hundred and Seven.

At 29, I'm only slightly less of a troublemaker.

* * * *

Back in 1991, I'd pestered a poor tour guide about Hemings and Jefferson's rumored sexual relationship, about how the man behind the All Men are Created Equal Doctrine may have Founding Fathered as many as six children with a woman that he owned as property.

My overzealous questioning drew the scorn of one of the teachers escorting the field trip. I was warned, threatened with a detention slip, if I didn't simmer down.

I was such a rebellious arrogant brat - I told the teacher, in advance, that I was going to do it, going to sit right on the edge of the bed of Thomas Jefferson. That act, the educator warned me, would lead to both a phone call to my parents AND in-school suspension.

So when we entered the bedchamber during our class tour, I waited for the guide to be distracted, waited for the teacher in question to look right at me, and plopped my 13-year-old ass down on the bed where one of the greatest minds of the 18th century once slept...

... And maybe his mistress, occasionally, too.

One whole day. My act of civil disobedience earned me one whole day in detention.

Technically, it earned me three days of in-school suspension, but I skipped class for the other two, forged a note from my high school's disciplinary official regarding my satisfactory completion, and never served out my full sentence. The teacher never called my parents.

It was so worth it.

- # # # -

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-OTHER MAN II: Tasting Kentucky, Payback as a Blogging Bitch, and Other Crazy Things

ACT I:
"DUDE. SHE TASTES LIKE KENTUCKY."

If this doesn't make your blog, I'm going to kick you in the fucking balls.

- Mister Chops

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Hairdressers can be quite entertaining.

Especially in gangs of four, when they've all had way too much to drink, when you're the only relatively sober guy at the bar.

Quite entertaining. And rather good kissers, too. Even if they taste like Kentucky, smell like generic body spray, and manhandle your junk like a plumber working over a rusted valve.

* * * *

Mister Chops? The guy behind the bar?

Chops was molested by three of the four women, forced to bare his shoulder and chest tattoos for all the world to see, to strip down to his A-frame tee for tips and wages, forced to be told that, well, even married women to get off every once and a while, forced to witness flashes of ass tats and tits and...

Me? Lucky ol' me?

I went four-for-four on the night. And all four claimed that there was no way in hell I could be a librarian, that librarians can't kiss like that, that they'd all like to share me for a few minutes, to spank me, to do very naughty things to me in bar bathrooms and on books and...

* * * *

One woman, a recent divorcée, ended up getting a little too excited. I guess I stirred up some biochemical response, caused quite a bit of, er, moisture build-up, which ended up seeping through the back of her jeans and onto my hand...

Hell. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to give a woman an orgasm, fully-clothed and without any sort of intention, in front of a live studio audience, with just a kiss and a few well-placed flicks of the tongue, a squeeze of a breast and stroke of the ass and...

I even earned a round of applause.

Hairdressers aren't the only ones who are good kissers.

* * * *

Actually, I went five-for-five if you count the blonde undergrad who'd witnessed the whole thing as her party entered the downstairs pub.

She followed me out to my truck and, right on High Street in Uptown Oxford, told me, exactly, just what she'd like to do to me.

Sounded like she had some fun things in mind.

Too bad she was 3,000 sheets to the wind and barely able to stand up straight.

She had to settle for, well, pushing me into my pick-up and shoving what felt like four inches of sorority girl down my throat. Tasted like Jägermeister and fifth-year desperation, like she hadn't had the guts to just walk up to a random guy and kiss him in years.

But still - not bad. For a 22-year-old from Dayton. She'd probably be a nice person to hang out with sometime - if she's ever sober.

But not as fun to make out with as the four 30-40ish hairdressers.

* * * *

I don't do drunk women.

Make out? Sure. But sex?

Honestly, it's not only dangerous; it's also boring and pointless.

Sure, I sometimes falter on that guiding principle. But, well, while I can no longer remember the number of women, total, that I've been involved with, I can count the number of drunken mistakes on my fingers.

Less than 10. And I'm proud of that. More important, I'm just glad I survived them.

I may fuck up, but, well, I prefer to fuck up almost completely sober. Blindfolds and cigarettes may provide the illusion of safety, but the firing squad will still pull their triggers the same, either way. Best to just face one's fate, sexual or otherwise, with both eyes square on the assassin.

* * * *

Who says Happy Hours aren't fun anymore?

Happy was me Thursday. But, by Saturday...

ACT II:
"YOU KNOW, I'M NOT AS DENSE AS YOU THINK..."

I knew exactly what I was doing.

Knew from the moment I paid for her late-night slice of pizza at Brunos. Knew as I suggested that, at 23 and 29, respectively, we were much too old, as working professionals, to be out past last call.

And, yep, I had a good idea what she was thinking when her heel snapped and she fell into me, commenting on the fact that I seem to have bulked up a bit since she last saw me. And I knew, exactly, what I was doing when she told me that she wanted to go back to my apartment, to just chill and catch up, as if we'd ever been friends.

And I knew she was married, too, married to a man who once got off on slipping an ex-girlfriend of his Special K during his Local U. undergrad days, married to a man whose ex-girlfriend ...

... ended up having a rather quick, torrid fling with a certain local blogger to get over the fact that, yeah, her best friend 4eva had been screwing her drug-slipping boyfriend for most of their relationship.

And I even had this lurking feeling I was being used to get back at that ex-fling of mine, for some unknown reason. Maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the fact that my ex-fling dared to fall in love with this amazing man who doesn't slip her ketamine as an aphrodisiac, for leaving her best friend 4eva (and Mr. Big Man and yours truly, for that matter) behind.

* * * *

As I lay in bed Saturday morning, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of some not-so-random woman singing bad pop music in my shower, I tried to make myself feel guilty, tried to find it in my soul, somewhere, to reprimand myself.

But I couldn't.

That best friend 4eva had just spent the night with a guy she'd once called the ugliest guy in Oxford, while her beloved cokehead of a hubby, the former Mr. Big Man on Campus, was spending the weekend drinking and clubbing back in the city Carl Sandburg once called the City of Big Shoulders.

* * * *

I knew why, exactly, she'd come back to Oxford Fucking Ohio - she wanted revenge on Mr. Big Man, a notoriously unfaithful guy who, from what she told me, spent more time groping interns than he did groping her. I knew from the first lie that she wasn't interested in planned giving to my library, knew she really didn't want my help researching something for work at 4 in the morning.

And, yes, I figured out quickly that she wasn't offering to rub my shoulders because I looked stressed, that she wasn't capable of sincere compassion. And, yes, I knew exactly what I was doing when she leaned against that door jamb and brought her knee up to her nose, when she insisted on demonstrating how flexible she'd become thanks to her yoga instructor.

I wasn't anywhere near drunk, yet, somehow, I tripped. Fell right up against her, catching that flexible thigh to mysteriously restore my balance. And when I smiled and raised my eyebrow, I lied and feigned innocence, just so she'd make the first move.

And she did. Even broke one of my favorite belts.

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, Sandburg wrote, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.

Well, Mr. Sandburg. Some of us farm boys may be dense, may have no fucking clue how to flirt or date nice girls or even behave like rational adults, but those painted women from The City of Big Shoulders are sometimes easy to lure away from beneath those lamps.

Some of us were just born with big shoulders. It's a curse.

* * * *

Spite is a curious bedfellow.

When I'd left the bar scene behind Friday night, I was annoyed, angry.

A female friend of mine, well past intoxicated, was literally throwing herself at a male friend of mine, whispering all sorts of drunken things into his ear. The female friend has been in a bad way for months, since she went through a nasty break-up with a guy. And the male friend, recently relocated back to Oxford, seemed to be deep in the kind of buzzed enlightenment that comes with having to choose between getting laid and being a good friend.

And, no, it wasn't jealousy. Not even close.

It was memories, memories of some of my own experiences with the self-destructive chaos that fuels all drunken hook-ups and one-night stands, the sort of forewarned regret and friendship - altering choices that, in general, rarely lead to anything productive.

Just hate to see people having to wade through shit. It's really, really painful for me to watch.

I used to be good at those sorts of things, a virtual maestro of drunken hook-ups, seductive womanizing and manwhoredom. But as I've gotten older...

And I thought about "Tonya," too, about how that friends - and - lovers choice had ended. Two weeks earlier, she'd FedExed me my lucky ring - I told her to ship the thing back if she felt that we couldn't salvage the friendship out of the clusterfuck it'd become. When I opened the parcel, my heart imploded; it was the first time in months that I'd been forced to admit that, yes, I had been falling hard for her when things went sour.

And I thought about other drama, too, with other former lovers and flings and girlfriends...

My cell vibrated in my pocket, snapped me out of my deep brooding and self-reflection.

DUDE! Hey! It's me, went the voicemail. You're not going to believe this, but _____ just tried to kiss me. Apparently Mrs. Perfect is down in fucking Oxford and he really thinks I'm going to get back together with him! Seriously. Fuck em! And watch out, dude. She reads your web site, so if you go home with anybody, that bitch is gonna tell everybody up here in Chi-Town.

I laughed. As if I was planning to go home with anybody.

And then, less than five minutes later, I'm standing at the door of my pickup, turning the key in the lock.

I feel a pair of woman's hands on my back, the sound of that high-pitched, stereotypical sorority alum voice, that Heeyyy Jay-sin!!! Loong Tiiime no seeeee!

Some women are as transparent as Waterford Crystal.

* * * *

Yes, spite is indeed a curious bedfellow. But, then again, so is fate. Makes for one hell of an orgy.

And, trust me, there are now quite a few folks up in the City of Big Shoulders who now know who I hooked up with last night.

Tell your husband I said hello.

I'm dense, but I'm not naive. I read your mind, hon.

You figured that you could get back at your husband by going home with the one guy he hates, that you could play me like a fiddle because, well, you'd been reading about my problems and relationship woes, and that you could just waltz right in, use me, and gloat.

And too bad you were singing in the shower. You would've realized that I rarely, if ever, walk into an ambush - I called your former best friend 4eva and told her everything.

She's now in a healthy relationship, doesn't care about who you, your hubby, or even I fuck. But she did think it was funny that you really thought you were getting away with anything.

And, actually, I'm not that easy to seduce. Bit of an urban legend, actually. Think you had it backwards, there, hon.

Can't really play the guy who just served you with the rule book.

* * * *

Oh, and by the way...

No worries about returning the tee shirt. Looked great on you as you went through security at the Cincinnati airport this morning.

It belonged to your former BFF. Butt-ugly thing, that shirt. She always looked horrible in yellow.

I am curious about one thing, however.

How did your husband react when he read Librarians Do It By the Book printed across your chest when he picked you up at O'Hare this morning?

Just curious.

And thanks for reaffirming my enduring belief that, no matter how physically attractive, sex with dumb women is just about as exciting as staring at my bedroom ceiling, waiting for somebody else to finish...

- # # # -

MORE DISPATCHES FROM THE ROAD: On the Central Coast, The Shit Always Hits The Fan After the Wine...

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- It started out as a hug, innocent and casual, two friends greeting each other outside of an upscale cafe.

And then I felt my arms around her close a bit tighter, felt her hands run up my spine. My left cheek slid down her right, my lips down to the nape of her neck as she buried her face into shoulder.

It was the sheer black sundress that did me in, that allowed old passions to flare back up, cinders for the forest fire. I'd seen her in skater garb, in stereotypical punker gear, even completely nude on top of me. But I'd never seen her in a dress.

Ravishing. Simply ravishing.

She mumbled into my shirt collar, mumbled in that innocent, almost childlike voice so many women are able to harness during times of heightened emotion.

"I hope you don't hate me. I didn't know if I could do this. I know you don't drink wine, but I wanted a place we could, like, just talk in private."

"Chica, I didn't know if you'd show up. I lied to my dad, told him I was going to Pismo Beach."

"Tonya" laughed.

She'd lied to her parents, too. Her father's still planning on putting me six feet in the ground, still blames me for ruining his daughter and granddaughter's financial security. Never mind that his daughter wasn't happy with her ex-husband, or that the ex-husband was really in love with someone else...

* * * *

By the time she looked up, my hand was on the back of her neck, fingers electric and fluid along the back of her skull.

"It's been hella evil, dude. Everybody knows. I so fucking sorry."

"S'okay, hon. It took two to tango, and we tangoed ourselves into a fucking mess."

Though "Tonya" and her ex-husband are on decent terms following their divorce, the upheaval - the failure of a supposedly perfect marriage - has led certain gossipy elements to conclude that, well, Tonya really is the trailer trash her ex mother-in-law always said she was, behind her back, and that I really was the cold, manipulating, womanizing bastard many of my former radio listeners thought I was.

Fucking each other's brains out back in December, back when she was still married, probably didn't help much. Cost me quite a few California friends, including almost all of the college friends I'd made while a student at Cal Poly back in the late 1990s. Cost her a whole hell of a lot more.

The last thing in the world either of us needed - she needed - was a very public kiss on a very public street, in broad daylight.

A peck on the cheek would have to do.

No need to give anybody anything else to gossip about.

* * * *

There would be no trip to a cheap motel this time. No six male orgasms, 12 female orgasms, no torn clothes, no dislocated shoulders or wedding bands on the nightstand.

The kid stuff was over. Fun, but reckless. Things could've gone much worse. Reality, sadly, creates its own rules, dictating things like maturity and decency like overpaid company presidents dictate cold memos to underpaid secretaries.

Six months removed from our fling, the time had come for the two of us to behave, at least for an afternoon, like stereotypical Central Coast 20-somethings - to take in a late lunch at a trendy bistro and split bottles of good Edna Valley chardonnay, cell phones laid out on the white tablecloth like gunslingers at a card game.

We racked up a $136 tab in just under two hours. I winced as I signed the credit card receipt, winced as I realized that I'm no longer in a position, as a librarian, to blow such fundage on a simple lunch. "Tonya" offered to go dutch, but I wouldn't go for it.

She'd bought the sheer, overpriced sundress - the second one she's ever owned, the other being her wedding dress - simply to hang out before she flew back to her home in the American Southwest. It was also an excuse to spend a bit of money, to go all girlie-girl and relieve stress through shopping.

When she again protested, I reminded her that, no, this wasn't a date, and, well, she'd invited me out for lunch - the guest always gets to choose who pays. Besides...

Wow.

That dress.

She just looked so, well, damned perfect in that damned Vera Wang getup (correction: I guess it's called a Mini Tank Dress, not a true sundress), and I looked so schmuckish in the first wrinkled polo I could dig out of my travel bag...

* * * *

"Goddamn it, dude. I'm walking in the water. Quit being such a fucking pussy. Cops don't care."

You know, women wearing $500 dresses tend to go diva after stereotypical Central Coast lunches, especially after sucking down $60 worth of chardonnay.

"Tonya" slipped off her heels and, as nimbly as a former skateboarding goddess can be, slid her feet beneath the bronze, grizzly-shaped fountain.

She once told me she used to rack up citations for riding her board through the park, that one of her old boyfriends had been nailed for meth back in 2002, right beside the fountain. For me, Mission Plaza brings back nothing but drunken undergrad memories - of puking on Higuera Street and pissing in the long-gone parking lot across from Woodstock's Pizza, of sleeping off Irish Car Bombs and Kamikazes and Gin and Tonics.

For both of us, the plaza represents a lot of juvenile things, California war stories. A beautiful city park, beneath a gorgeous Spanish Mission, in a quiet little town full of hypocrites and secrets.

"Ya know, I thought you were gonna kiss me back there."

"Back where, chica?"

"Before we ate, outside of ______. You had that look. That squinty thing."

"Squinty thing?"

"Like, you squint your left eye when you're, like, thinking of trying to get away with something."

"So... could I have gotten away with it?"

"I dunno. Christ. But _____'s mom has a lot of pull in SLO, a lot of nosey fucking friends, shrivelled old cuntbags."

"Do you care? I mean, you're not married anymore."

"____ is my ex-husband. His mom knows about the motel room, everything. And we just finalized custody. I have to care. I don't want to give the bitch any more ammo. Ya know?"

"Tonya" stared at her ankles, tip-toeing across the tiled bottom of the fountain.

"Yeah, I know."

Being an adult fucking sucks.

* * * *

Walking "Tonya" back to her rental car, we chatted away about all sorts of completely batshit random things - her unhealthy crush on Nomar Garciaparra, my weird food allergies, her famous customers, and my sorta famous adult performer exes.

She still had four hours until her flight back home, back to her world full of purchase orders and sales reports and payroll issues. We sat in the parking garage for at least an hour talking, perched up on the hood of the compact rental, like we had all the time in the world.

At one point, she had her head in my lap, feet propped up on the windshield, twisted in ways that would make a yoga instructor envious. I put one hand on her shoulder and one on her hip, just in case she started to fall.

I guess she thought my hand placement meant something more.

"Jason."

"Yeah, chica?"

"You can get away with whatever."

"Whatever what?"

You know, I'm dense. Really dense.

"Yeah, but we're just friends. Friendly."

"If that. You're a dangerous fucking guy, dude."

"Tell me about it. Ya ever have mono?"

"Tonya" laughed and sat up, sharp elbows digging into my thigh, eye sockets pierced by that flirty stare thing she does.

* * * *

One hand slid from shoulder to breast, the other from hip to stomach.

Things went downhill from there.

I felt every corner of her tongue as we kissed, felt that tongue barbell of hers clicking against my teeth, felt every goosebump on the back of her neck.

It's amazing how easy it is to get lost in a moment, for me at least, to forget that one is actually in a crowded parking garage, that a true stereotypical San Luis Obispan rarely runs his hand up a $500 dress in public or slides her hand down the front of jeans...

As we slid into the back seat, adulthood - that stupid, goddamn reason-outweighs-lust part of it - kicked back into gear.

Something, well, just didn't seem right.

My brakes ground to a halt first; I was working my way south, down past her navel, my tongue an inch above her tan line. The c-section scar, barely noticeable, jumped out at me.

Hadn't noticed it back in December, and it didn't really turn me off. It did, however, remind me that if any one of her ex's family members walked by...

I looked back up at "Tonya." She was still into everything, physically (some poor shmoe at the rental place had one hell of a stain on his hands), but she seemed distant, her eyes filled not with any sort of pleasure but with what looked like... guilt.

"Hey, um, maybe we should..."

I couldn't get the STOP word out. Just wasn't happening.

"No, dude, it's cool. I want to..."

"Want? No. But maybe we need to..."

Again, unable to simply say STOP. Feeling just a tad uncomfortable, I came up for air, slid right beside her, between her back and the fabric.

"Tonya," I guess, figured I was just positioning myself; she reached back and guided me inside, pushing hard, to the point of causing her to wince.

Now I was more than just a little freaked out. "Tonya" was thrusting back, hard and deep, almost as if she was intentionally trying to cause herself pain, to use my flesh as a torture device.

I pulled out.

"Nah. I think this violates the whole 'Let's just be friends' thing, chica."

She couldn't make eye-contact.

I heard that childish voice again, too. She said that she, yep, needed to stop, that she wanted to just fuck away an afternoon in a car, but fear paralyzed her, fear that I wanted something more, fear that she wanted more...

And then she started to tear up, her face flushed, almost angry.

She said she wanted to throw up, felt as if she was on the verge of ruining my life, of dragging me back down into the pit with her... Even just being friends wasn't going to work, it was hurting both of us... we were being immature and only one of us could afford it...

A complete, screeching halt.

I just held her for about an hour, until her cell phone started to ring, until her mother called to ask why, exactly, her daughter used the word fuck so often.

* * * *

No long, dramatic goodbyes. The whole thing ended as it began back when she was just a high school kid with a skateboard, and I was a 21-year-old reporter: awkward silences and strange glances, a quick catch ya later, as if being 2,000 miles apart was somehow the same as living a few cities away from one another.

C'est la vie.

* * * *

I kept looking into the rear view mirror as my borrowed convertible crawled up the Cuesta Grade.

I'm not sure what I was looking for, exactly, but I saw something I hadn't seen before, something buried in the ever growing lines in my face, beneath the increasing numbers of gray hairs.

I saw an old man, a terrified old bastard, staring back at me.

Whoa.

Where the fuck did he come from?

- END -

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.

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