Prairie Landing
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Some things that happened
Yesterday I went to the library and on my way in I passed a pack of guys in suits handing out Christian tracts. Not the lurid Jack Chick kind, just the regular "You're only a heartbeat away!" ones.
The downtown library used to bother me because it seemed so plain and boring compared to the big downtown library in Baltimore. Here's a picture:
On the outside, of course, it's completely insane. I don't know who decided this was a good idea:
Unfortunately no pictures are readily available of the completely over-the-top, gilt-coated Baltimore library. I guess my tastes have changed over the past year and a half, because I now think that baroque public architecture bespeaks urban decay and is therefore kind of sad and tawdry. (I also LOVE bungalows, which I bitched about in my very first entry on this blog, I think.)
Anyway, the librarian wouldn't let me check out any books because I didn't have my library card. I told her it was stolen and she asked three stupid questions:
#1. "Is it at home?" No. I just said my wallet was stolen. (In fact, "stolen" was only one of many possibilities. What actually happened is, one day I forgot to zip my backpack all the way and my wallet just disappeared.)
#2. "Have you registered the stolen card with us?" Um, no. Who calls the library when they're missing their wallet? What, was I supposed to call the video store, too? The grocery store?
#3. "Well, then, do you have a police report?" No, I didn't have a police report, and if I did, I doubt I would've brought it with me to the fricking library.
As punishment for not having followed the rules, I have to pay $1 for a replacement card. But they don't process cards after 6:30 p.m. Instead I had to come back another day and fill out one of the forms behind that lady -- "I mean, that gentleman," she corrected herself -- of which there were none.
I went back outside and a gray-haired, Volvo-hippie looking woman was gesturing to one of the Bible guys, making a rectangle between her index fingers and thumbs. She was saying, "Now where I'm from is right here, over near the Massachusetts border. . . " The guy was riffling through his tracts and clearly trying to figure out an exit strategy.
The downtown library used to bother me because it seemed so plain and boring compared to the big downtown library in Baltimore. Here's a picture:
On the outside, of course, it's completely insane. I don't know who decided this was a good idea:
Unfortunately no pictures are readily available of the completely over-the-top, gilt-coated Baltimore library. I guess my tastes have changed over the past year and a half, because I now think that baroque public architecture bespeaks urban decay and is therefore kind of sad and tawdry. (I also LOVE bungalows, which I bitched about in my very first entry on this blog, I think.)
Anyway, the librarian wouldn't let me check out any books because I didn't have my library card. I told her it was stolen and she asked three stupid questions:
#1. "Is it at home?" No. I just said my wallet was stolen. (In fact, "stolen" was only one of many possibilities. What actually happened is, one day I forgot to zip my backpack all the way and my wallet just disappeared.)
#2. "Have you registered the stolen card with us?" Um, no. Who calls the library when they're missing their wallet? What, was I supposed to call the video store, too? The grocery store?
#3. "Well, then, do you have a police report?" No, I didn't have a police report, and if I did, I doubt I would've brought it with me to the fricking library.
As punishment for not having followed the rules, I have to pay $1 for a replacement card. But they don't process cards after 6:30 p.m. Instead I had to come back another day and fill out one of the forms behind that lady -- "I mean, that gentleman," she corrected herself -- of which there were none.
I went back outside and a gray-haired, Volvo-hippie looking woman was gesturing to one of the Bible guys, making a rectangle between her index fingers and thumbs. She was saying, "Now where I'm from is right here, over near the Massachusetts border. . . " The guy was riffling through his tracts and clearly trying to figure out an exit strategy.
