Not much makes me giggle like a schoolgirl more than a handful of new books coming up from our tech services department that I ordered. I feel like they’re mine, obviously, but more than that, I am bursting with giddiness over the fun titles.
Bad Girls 4 Live
Pitbulls in a Skirt
Thug’s Passion
A Hood Chick’s Story
Payback is a Mutha
They say sardonically, “Ah, look, Happy Villain’s books are in,” and they’re looking at a cover that has an African American woman’s ass barely covered by a spandex skirt that almost comes down to the bottom of her cheeks, and she’s sporting some stilettos that could double as weapons. Yup. Those are mine. And it thrills me to no end. If nothing else, I can die a happy woman now because I have given our library over 150 hoochie-mama books.
This is my legacy. It makes me smile.
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Friday, September 19, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Books Having Personal Ads
HELP!
Leelu had the brilliant idea of writing personal ads for library books, to put on a display to draw attention to and encourage use of books in the 800s. Literature and poetry don't circulate all that much and, at least in my library, are mostly ignored by patrons unless they are working on a project for an English or writing class. People only read the 800s if their grade depends on it. While brainstorming, she came up with the personal ad concept, and before I could protest, she assigned to me the task of writing this ad and then left. Sneaky Leelu.
BUT IT'S TOO MUCH PRESSURE!
The following are ads I came up with, and while they might work, perhaps you guys can come up with something truly brilliant.
This is what I have so far.
And while we’re at it, if you have a section of books for sale at your library like we do, some of my coworkers and I came up with this one.
Leelu had the brilliant idea of writing personal ads for library books, to put on a display to draw attention to and encourage use of books in the 800s. Literature and poetry don't circulate all that much and, at least in my library, are mostly ignored by patrons unless they are working on a project for an English or writing class. People only read the 800s if their grade depends on it. While brainstorming, she came up with the personal ad concept, and before I could protest, she assigned to me the task of writing this ad and then left. Sneaky Leelu.
BUT IT'S TOO MUCH PRESSURE!
The following are ads I came up with, and while they might work, perhaps you guys can come up with something truly brilliant.
This is what I have so far.
- Classic book seeks reader. I’m looking for someone who is into my wardrobe of leather, and will help me keep my binding nice and tight. Feel free to devour me and then share me with your friends.
Classic book seeks reader. I like long, lazy afternoons at the beach, curling up in front of a roaring fire, a romantic restaurant for just the two of us, and traveling anywhere interesting, as long as I’m with you.
Classic book seeks reader. Don’t judge me by my cover. I’ve been accused of looking a little dog-eared, but you should read between the lines – I’m all substance. Let's go on an adventure together!
Library book seeks reader. No long-term commitment necessary -- I’m too free-spirited to be tied down. Take me home, have your way with me, and then bring me back for the next person to enjoy. There’s plenty of me to go around.
And while we’re at it, if you have a section of books for sale at your library like we do, some of my coworkers and I came up with this one.
- Orphaned book needs reader. If you adopt me today, I will be your most appreciative and loyal book. I’ll always be happy that you picked me up, I’ll melt in your hands, I’ll tell you great stories, and I’m the best listener you’ll ever know. People and pets will come and go from your life, but I will always be there for you. Please give me a forever home.
Friday, June 20, 2008
He's No Swan!
Hans Christian Anderson was a dildo.
We’re all familiar with the story The Ugly Duckling and the moral it preached about how ugly kids can grow up to be beautiful adults, or some such nonsense. There are some fairy tales that I think are beautiful and timeless, and there are some, like this one, that I think are garbage. This tale is about the equivalent of saying that if you’re flat-chested as a kid, you could grow up and have naturally huge knockers, so don’t fret about being an AA.
C’mon, you self-deprecating, pre-emo dork! Can’t you do better than that? Perhaps teach that there are more important things in the world than being a size 3, having bee-stung lips or a six-pack of abs you could crush a beer can with when you do a sit-up. Gee, maybe it would be nice for a kid to know that being smart and having courage are two traits far rarer and more precious than having big blue eyes and long lashes to bat at your mommy. Maybe it would be nice if the little cygnet got his revenge on the ducklings by saving them from habitat loss or leading them to food during a famine. Maybe it would be better if the entire story recognized that the ugly duckling was not only never a duckling, but he was never ugly, either!
HELLO! Have you seen what a cygnet looks like?! They are the cutest little off-white fuzzballs I’ve ever seen, with pastel-pink bills and big, dark eyes. What a stupid fairy tale that is when you consider how fucking adorable cygnets are!
Okay, Mr. Anderson, let’s look a little closer here. If that was supposed to be semi-autobiographical, with the “ugly” bird representing you and how ugly you thought you were, but it grew up to be the most beautiful bird around, perhaps this self-pity fest needs to be crashed. This “ugly” critter you saw as yourself is actually one of the cutest animals in nature. What’s that about? You want people to think that you’re self-conscious about how ugly you feel, but you really believe you’re a cute, fuzzy cygnet about to grow up into a gorgeous swan? I’m supposed to feel sorry for that? I’m supposed to find comfort in what you perceive as a turn of luck that means you will be stunningly gorgeous, so no one should tell you how ugly they think you are? Oh no, Mr. Anderson. Go cry on someone else’s shoulder! We are not that gullible. And if you think you’re a baby swan, then you’re a shallow braggart anyway.
Dildo.
And to help prove it, here are my pictures of a family of swans I met at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Tell me these things aren’t adorable! Mr. Anderson WISHES he was this cute!!
And, if you’re so inclined, I have more pics of peacocks, mountain goats, bears, lions and pelicans.
I swear I'll write actual posts again now that my vacation is over.
We’re all familiar with the story The Ugly Duckling and the moral it preached about how ugly kids can grow up to be beautiful adults, or some such nonsense. There are some fairy tales that I think are beautiful and timeless, and there are some, like this one, that I think are garbage. This tale is about the equivalent of saying that if you’re flat-chested as a kid, you could grow up and have naturally huge knockers, so don’t fret about being an AA.
C’mon, you self-deprecating, pre-emo dork! Can’t you do better than that? Perhaps teach that there are more important things in the world than being a size 3, having bee-stung lips or a six-pack of abs you could crush a beer can with when you do a sit-up. Gee, maybe it would be nice for a kid to know that being smart and having courage are two traits far rarer and more precious than having big blue eyes and long lashes to bat at your mommy. Maybe it would be nice if the little cygnet got his revenge on the ducklings by saving them from habitat loss or leading them to food during a famine. Maybe it would be better if the entire story recognized that the ugly duckling was not only never a duckling, but he was never ugly, either!
HELLO! Have you seen what a cygnet looks like?! They are the cutest little off-white fuzzballs I’ve ever seen, with pastel-pink bills and big, dark eyes. What a stupid fairy tale that is when you consider how fucking adorable cygnets are!
Okay, Mr. Anderson, let’s look a little closer here. If that was supposed to be semi-autobiographical, with the “ugly” bird representing you and how ugly you thought you were, but it grew up to be the most beautiful bird around, perhaps this self-pity fest needs to be crashed. This “ugly” critter you saw as yourself is actually one of the cutest animals in nature. What’s that about? You want people to think that you’re self-conscious about how ugly you feel, but you really believe you’re a cute, fuzzy cygnet about to grow up into a gorgeous swan? I’m supposed to feel sorry for that? I’m supposed to find comfort in what you perceive as a turn of luck that means you will be stunningly gorgeous, so no one should tell you how ugly they think you are? Oh no, Mr. Anderson. Go cry on someone else’s shoulder! We are not that gullible. And if you think you’re a baby swan, then you’re a shallow braggart anyway.
Dildo.
And to help prove it, here are my pictures of a family of swans I met at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Tell me these things aren’t adorable! Mr. Anderson WISHES he was this cute!!
And, if you’re so inclined, I have more pics of peacocks, mountain goats, bears, lions and pelicans.
I swear I'll write actual posts again now that my vacation is over.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Believe It Or Not
Today I started reading a book that promised to be a witty tome about the (mis)adventures of a safari guide, and as I’ve been reading it, I’ve become painfully aware that the book is quite amusing, but I’m starting to wonder how easy it would be to make the entire thing up. I mean, how many people have enough experience as a safari guide in Africa to contradict anything said in this book, such as the believability of being able to summon lions by wailing like a dying impala? I’m not saying I don’t believe the stories, but I just think it’s a topic that is alien, yet enthralling enough to intrigue readers, and the author could write about animals that don’t even exist and we’d still drool over the stories. Particularly if they’re written with the kind of subtle, sarcastic wit that this book contains.
Long ago I wrote a post about a pseudo intellectual I know, and how he likes to spout trivial facts about things that have no pertinence, or speak a language so obscure that he is the only person in the state who knows it exists, just to seem so uber intelligent as to make common intelligence seem base. He’ll say something in Chichewa and we’re just supposed to believe it means something because there is no one around who can say otherwise. Memoirists are doing much of this now, marketing their books to the masses and writing complete fiction because the masses have no idea if what they’re saying is true or not. No, the average person has no idea what it’s like to survive amnesia-inducing overdoses of drugs, life on the streets with gangs, the torture of escaping a concentration camp, being sent to teen bootcamp in Europe, or schmoozing with Hollywood’s elite. We buy the books, read the books, and try to believe the books, but even objective witnesses remember things wrong, so how can these authors remember these stories with such vivid details as to write these beguiling books about things that happened decades ago? Should we believe them?
It’s like those people, you know the ones, who only like a musical group if no one else on earth has ever heard of them, including their own mothers. I hate these people. They think they’re cutting edge because they love the unlovable, and as soon as another fan joins their ranks, it completely discredits the music. These ridiculous standards are common, and we only value what we think no one else knows about. We crave these stories of backpacking in the African bush, of working as a dishwasher in every state of the Union, and escaping a polygamist compound. I, myself, have read these books for the same reason everyone else did; I know nothing about these lifestyles, am fascinated by the concept, and fantasize a bit that I could be these people and experience their very rare and special triumphs. We could be reading the latest memoir by another politician wanting to tell his side of the story of his life, or we could be reading about yet another bored housewife who reclaimed her identity, but why be a fan of common music when we can be groupies for a band that no one knows anything about? If we haven’t the wherewithal to be cutting edge ourselves, let us at least follow around someone else who is, and trust that they’re more real than we are, living vicariously through them.
And so I’m off to read more of this memoir that is actually quite entertaining and I’m enjoying it thoroughly, but I can’t help but wonder if during a plague of mice, would one really try to scurry into your bungholio, or if elephants really do rattle a branch to warn you that you’re getting too close. I will likely never know. It shouldn’t take away from how fabulous it is to read about it, but it kind of does. I can’t blame modern memoirists who wrote false memoirs because even if their lies hadn’t been revealed, I’d still question if what I’m reading is true simply because there aren’t a whole lot of people who can support or refute any of it.
Yet, this is part of the appeal.
We are such confusing creatures, we humans.
On the other hand, I read the book Tuesday and believed with all my heart that on that night, frogs truly did fly around on lily pads.
Long ago I wrote a post about a pseudo intellectual I know, and how he likes to spout trivial facts about things that have no pertinence, or speak a language so obscure that he is the only person in the state who knows it exists, just to seem so uber intelligent as to make common intelligence seem base. He’ll say something in Chichewa and we’re just supposed to believe it means something because there is no one around who can say otherwise. Memoirists are doing much of this now, marketing their books to the masses and writing complete fiction because the masses have no idea if what they’re saying is true or not. No, the average person has no idea what it’s like to survive amnesia-inducing overdoses of drugs, life on the streets with gangs, the torture of escaping a concentration camp, being sent to teen bootcamp in Europe, or schmoozing with Hollywood’s elite. We buy the books, read the books, and try to believe the books, but even objective witnesses remember things wrong, so how can these authors remember these stories with such vivid details as to write these beguiling books about things that happened decades ago? Should we believe them?
It’s like those people, you know the ones, who only like a musical group if no one else on earth has ever heard of them, including their own mothers. I hate these people. They think they’re cutting edge because they love the unlovable, and as soon as another fan joins their ranks, it completely discredits the music. These ridiculous standards are common, and we only value what we think no one else knows about. We crave these stories of backpacking in the African bush, of working as a dishwasher in every state of the Union, and escaping a polygamist compound. I, myself, have read these books for the same reason everyone else did; I know nothing about these lifestyles, am fascinated by the concept, and fantasize a bit that I could be these people and experience their very rare and special triumphs. We could be reading the latest memoir by another politician wanting to tell his side of the story of his life, or we could be reading about yet another bored housewife who reclaimed her identity, but why be a fan of common music when we can be groupies for a band that no one knows anything about? If we haven’t the wherewithal to be cutting edge ourselves, let us at least follow around someone else who is, and trust that they’re more real than we are, living vicariously through them.
And so I’m off to read more of this memoir that is actually quite entertaining and I’m enjoying it thoroughly, but I can’t help but wonder if during a plague of mice, would one really try to scurry into your bungholio, or if elephants really do rattle a branch to warn you that you’re getting too close. I will likely never know. It shouldn’t take away from how fabulous it is to read about it, but it kind of does. I can’t blame modern memoirists who wrote false memoirs because even if their lies hadn’t been revealed, I’d still question if what I’m reading is true simply because there aren’t a whole lot of people who can support or refute any of it.
Yet, this is part of the appeal.
We are such confusing creatures, we humans.
On the other hand, I read the book Tuesday and believed with all my heart that on that night, frogs truly did fly around on lily pads.
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