How many librarians does it take to coax a singing patron out of the restroom? Two, according to Scott Douglas’ new memoir Quiet, Please: Dispatches from a Public Librarian. “It’s always a good idea to approach a strange situation in the library with another person who can act as a witness should anything happen that requires police attention,” he warns. (Cops at the library? It happens!)

Though the book’s publication rides the recent wave of the alleged trendiness of librarians, Douglas is, thankfully, just a regular guy—and please, not a “guybrarian”—who happened to fall into the profession as an undergrad. After begrudgingly earning an MLIS degree, he made the move from library technician to bona fide librarian and still works at the Anaheim Public Library today.

At the core of Quiet, Please lies Douglas’ sincere passion for serving his community. But it would be kind of a bore to read 300-plus pages on that. Instead, we get anecdote after wacky anecdote, many of which are gleaned from the author’s sporadic Dispatches from a Public Librarian on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. It’s a truly funny glimpse into the daily life of a public servant. RIVET says borrow this from your local library; the people who work there might appreciate it.

I’ve been studying Literary Hypermedia, and seeing as how this blog is one form thereof I thought it an appropriate vehicle to continue the discussion started elsewhere by others. In the early-to-mid Nineties, when the world looked to the infinite future, the Internet seemed to be the apparatus with which this future would be realized. We all remember a thousand ugly webpages, in garish websafe colors, with text rendered in serif fonts, and it’s hard not to wonder how we were all alright with the future looking so bad.

Of more interest to me, however, is the demise of some of those dreams for the potential of the medium. I’m speaking in particular of Hypertext Fiction. This is more than the process of translating printed word into digitized word. As informed by critical theory (don’t worry, I promise not to quote any), Hypertext is [was?] a new form of literature - a multidiscursive, decentered narrative in which the term “narrative” is misleading. Put simply, the text doesn’t flow forward in a linear matter, allowing the reader to jump around in an order established by the reader. There are obvious problems with this concept, outside of the ideal theoretical realm in which it was imagined. A story without a story can hardly be called a story.

Around 1995, and even before, there were a number of writers experimenting with the form, struggling through their ignorance of web and graphic design to locate the end product of the medium’s potential. But when I conducted a recent Google search for variations of “Hypertext Fiction” and “Literary Hypermedia” I discovered that almost all web-based hypertextual works of fiction were those leftover from this initial period of experimentation, and that half of those links returned by Google were dead.

I’ve rambled on here for quite a while without being interesting and/or funny, but let me sum this up by saying that I think hypertext deserves a period of re-exploration. While early attempts probably failed to discover the broader ramifications of the combination of fiction and the internet, there is still great potential, and somebody out there is going to discover the power of hypertext and be friggin’ famous because they do. Why shouldn’t that be one of us?

It’s about that time of year again— when you realize those New Year’s resolutions sounded cooler before the ball dropped, and no matter how hard you try you’re always gonna smoke, eat too much, or weigh more than you’d like. That’s just how life goes.

Despite your nagging sense of failure, not everything in life has to suck, and on Thursday January 24th 7 p.m. at Richard Hugo House, “Cheap Wine and Poetry” will give you something to be happy about, kicking off 2008 with novelist Rebecca Brown, poets Felicia Gonzalez and [RIVET”s own!!] Kathryn Lebo, and monologist Sean O’Connor.

If that line-up isn’t life-affirming enough, we have something else that is— cheap wine for a buck a glass. It goes great with a smoke, and after a couple, you won’t care what you eat or how much you weigh; you’ll be drunk.

So shrug off those post-New Year’s blues and put back a few with us at the next “Cheap Wine and Poetry.” We’ll make your life worth living!

WHAT: “Cheap Wine and Poetry” with Rebecca Brown, Felicia Gonzalez, Kathryn Lebo, and Sean O’Connor. Hosted by Charla Grenz.

WHEN: Thursday, January 24th 7 p.m.

WHERE: Richard Hugo House, 1634 11th Ave, Capitol Hill

ETC: Wine: $1/glass.
    “Cheap Wine and Poetry” t-shirts on sale.
    Open mic.

Co-sponsored by Richard Hugo House.

www.cheapwineandpoetry.com

It’s rare that a book is easy to read, but also well worth reading. Usually it takes a Pynchon or a Barthelme to really suck me into the text, where the complexity of the ideas necessitates the complexity of the language. As much as I love those guys, I love nothing more than when a writer manages to say just as much in simpler prose, where with a subtlety of phrase and a poet’s touch they pull meaning from less.That’s what Jesse Ball does in Samedi the Deafness. It is an absurdist thriller, if such a combination is possible. James Sim, the overly-innocent protagonist, is sucked into a global terror plot. A ridiculously convoluted global terror plot, perpetrated by the psychiatrist proprietor of an asylum for chronic liars. No, really. Most of the novel takes place at the asylum, and bounces around through lies and half-truths and flashbacks as poor James tries to figure out just exactly what’s going on.

That’s where the term “thriller” runs out. This isn’t a high-octane bestseller. It’s a dreamy, surreal jaunt through a world I wish existed because the characters are that much more interesting than real people. James’ love interest, who goes by a number of different names throughout the book, is the kind of perfectly f***ed up girl I want to meet and marry myself one day (is that a line from an Everclear song, “Perfect in a f***ed up way?”). I don’t recall the last time I was this satisfied with the thought processes of a writer. The story kept going, and through every turn I loved where I was going. Highly recommended.

An at-home donut factory, Robosaurus Rex—Daily Candy editions of late have featured some items that are less than confection perfection.

We’ll always love the DC, but why not start 2008 with a subscription to a new e-newsletter? Starting Jan. 4, Chicago Picks (like its sisters, Seattle Picks, Portland Picks, Minneapolis Picks and Phoenix Picks) will show up in Windy City inboxes every Friday with shop profiles, sales scoops, event listings and more.

As a resident of the rainy city, I’m signed up with Seattle Picks. It’s so chock-full of fun, chatty banter and recommendations that I don’t always get through it in one quick morning read. But that’s a whole week’s worth of goodies.

I’ve been reading Minds Meet, a collection of short stories by Walter Abish. I don’t know much about Abish, but he was a writer back in the 70’s and perhaps other times as well but it is back in the 70’s that is important here. I’ve learned a few interesting tidbits about the period from his writing. Apparently, in 1970 or thereabouts, communism was cool. Now, this seems odd, seeing as how JFK was also apparently really cool, which creates the equation cool plus really cool equals Cuban Missile Crisis. There’s also a story in which the main character falls in love with Hitler’s daughter. Oh, the morality.

Abish’s stories follow twisted logic and often absurd plotlines. His language is sparse and jagged. Reading his work leaves you with that feeling like when you read Kerouac, that you’ve been there and seen a time with the people who actually lived it.

I don’t know if Minds Meet is still in print anywhere, but the stories are cool and the perspective is cooler (much like communism and JFK), so check your local library or eBay.

“Death On The Breeze”
A Danny Stark Mystery
by James Walling

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18

Danny stoked the fire and brooded. It had been an unusually productive day—he’d retrieved the boy wonder from jail, alienated his main squeeze, and made a token appearance at an old pal’s funeral. It was one for the record books, however you wanted to slice it.

Back at the garage, his pal Fox had spent the better part of the day sucking down cheap bourbon and gritting his teeth while a stoic Charlene pulled a dozen or so fragments of buckshot from his thigh.

He might have gone to the hospital like any sane person would have in his place, but Bill Fox had never been one for red tape and explanations.

“How wassa funeral?” Fox inquired, slurring his words.

Danny didn’t answer at first. He registered the sound of Bean rustling through the cupboards—no doubt in pursuit of hooch—and he was tempted to issue a dire warning about the possible hazards of killing his last few ounces of scotch.

But Bean—poor, miserable, unlucky Bean—had earned a few ounces of whatever happened to be on hand. Seventy-two hours in the pokey preceded by a day and a half of special time with friendly Jimmy Elmer was all the pedigree anybody needed to earn Danny’s patience.

“Hey!” Fox bawled. “You deaf?”

“Sorry…” Danny answered, snapping out of his reverie. “The funeral was great, a barrel of laughs. Too bad you missed it.”

Charlene giggled.

“Very f-funny,” Fox mumbled. He was sprawled out on Danny’s bed dressed in a bathrobe, his bandaged thigh exposed, a pint of Rebel Yell in his hand.

A crash from the vicinity of the kitchen cut the conversation short.

“Sonofabitch!” Bean exclaimed amidst the remnants of a punchbowl he had been attempting to wrestle down from a shelf.

“Don’t move, dear,” Charlene chided as she rose from her chair to assist him. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Fox roared with laughter. Bean didn’t think it was funny. He wasn’t sure yet he’d emerged unscathed.

“Sorry, Dan,” he muttered miserably.

“Don’t let the glassware getcha!” Fox teased between guffaws. “it ain’t quite buckshot,” he went on, “but it’ll do…”

Danny slipped out the door and down the hall to escape the commotion. He took his sweet time and detoured into the shop. He padded amidst the machines and empty space. Apart from the stolen Hummer and the Jag he’d worked over the night Jimmy Elmer had paid him a visit, these rooms had lain barren since Herb’s death.

Danny wondered if he should give up the ghost. Should I drop it or what? Should I let it go and get on with business as usual?

He paced the floor and genuflected.

Whattaya say, Herb? Why’d they kill ya? What’d you do, boy? How ‘bout you tell ol’ Danny just what the fuck went down? Cut me loose and find some other fool to haunt…

He waited in the silence for a feeling of surrender or resolve to wash over him. None came.

The price tag… the cost in blood… it’s too much, too much to ask…

But those were Herb’s words, Danny thought. Herb, who could never bring himself to ask a favor, would not have asked for this. It made little difference.

Danny thought back to the last time he’d seen Herb alive. They had marked the first thaw of the season by hitting the catfish hole in the narrows beneath the old single-span bridge above the falls.

Herb had remembered to bring a steaming thermos of Irish coffee. Only trouble was he’d forgotten to pick up the bait. They sipped coffee with their legs dangling from the roadside and laughed until they cried.

“Somebody did it,” Danny said aloud to the empty room. “And somebody’s gotta pay.” His words echoed back to him unanswered.

He turned on his heel and trudged into the office. He pulled the chair free from his desk and sat in the dark, wondering what to do next.

Without being aware of having made a conscious decision, he found himself dialing information and asking for Tommy Thompson’s home number.

The phone rang four times before the machine picked up.

“You’ve reached the Thompson residence,” a stately feminine voice intoned. “We’re not here to take your call right now. Leave a message after the tone and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.”

Danny hung up. He jerked open the desk drawer and fished out his tape recorder to make note of Thompson’s number.

After replacing the recorder, he crossed to the front door and stepped into the night.

It was still and cold. He shivered a bit and wondered when the weather would begin to match the month of the year.

He was about to lock up and rejoin the circus in the back when a car pulled into the gravel lot. The engine died and a long moment passed before the driver opened the door and emerged from the car.

Danny resisted the urge to call out. Hesitant steps approached him and stopped halfway to the door.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Danny had heard the voice over the telephone once before, and he guessed right in presuming it belonged to Lorraine Elmer.

“Fellas are inside,” Danny said, nodding his head toward the back of the building, “still lickin’ their wounds, I guess. Might not be too friendly just now.”

“I spose not,” she agreed. “I came to see you.”

“Yeah,” Danny said, skeptically, “you and what army?”

Lorraine said nothing.

“Where’s Jimmy?” Danny asked.

“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of that boy, not since you all run him off.”

Danny laughed.

“We woulda called first, but we were anxious to meet him.”

The woman sighed and turned back to the car.

“Come on, Stark,” she said, climbing behind the wheel. “Let’s take a drive.”

Danny shrugged resignedly and followed her to the car.

We need a few good people to join our staff. Please send resumes and cover letters to editor@rivetmagazine.org by December 10.