-Role, playing-

Customarily, I select a number of books according to a related theme. (I just completed a set of books that all featured the analogy of "the Frog and Scorpion" to convey betrayal) but I recently brought in a single book from the current affairs section of the library.

Public heroes, private felons : athletes and crimes against women / Jeff Benedict

I am reminded of the time I met a woman in Saint Paul who made a living educating athletes about their relationships with women. All for the purposes of avoiding legislation and bad publicity, of course. She was employed by Athletic industry, not GenderWatch.

Her job, she informed us, mostly consisted of leading seminars that taught athletes the different ways men and women communicate.

That part sounds okay to me. For example, if your team had just defeated rival Wisconsin in their home stadium, the college freshman you've taken home from the post-game celebration may be intoxicated and in over her head, and probably does not consent to intercourse. Even if she did, she certainly does not consent to being passed around by your teammates.

Sadly, I think the educator was more interested in teaching the jocks to duck and weave around prosecution. In the above scenario, the victim (who was imprisoned in the hotel room until a clerk found her the next morning) recognized the Minnesota Gopher gear. Police stopped the team's plane as it was getting ready to take off, and she identified some of the perpetrators on the spot.

They walked, of course. Because athletes are role models for the children.

To that I quote:
"If your kid needs a role model and you ain't it, you're both fucked."
George Carlin, Brain Droppings.

zzzZZZzzz..Sleep Study..zzzZZZzzz

One week of Sleep Deprivation, Radiotracers, and Wires on the Cranium.

-Sunday Night/Monday Morning-

My father often describes his childhood in topographically-charged Reading as a place where the distance between home and school is "uphill, both ways." He says this facetiously, but his stories are also meant to sting later generations of car-using school-goers, myself included, for whom walking to school was never an option or a hardship until we lived on college campuses, where the options (or hardships) became the choice between attending on time, attending late, or not attending at all.

Pittsburgh, like Reading, is very hilly, and as I circled the sleep lab looking for other ways in, I noticed that my path was uphill both ways. They've left me little time to muse over this before I enter the lab for another night, and I pass through the psych building puffing with incline exertion, determined to master my breathing before the thirteenth floor and my tormentors.

As it happens, I needn't have hurried. Kathy the insomniac (a real one) is watching TLC's endless loop of Trading Spaces, which I find oddly stressful. I'm not worrying about whether or not they'll like what's been done to their rooms, but over the dangerous way the amateurs couples - and sometimes their amateur children - wield powertools.

The Trading Spaces episodes are embedded with commercials for (Hey! Synergy!)other episodes of Trading Spaces and their splinter shows. The only one that really caught my attention was the "What not to wear" teaser:

"She was a grad student.. and she dressed like one. Now that she has her PhD, its time to change her wardrobe."

The techs arrive and glue wires to my hair. Unlike last time, none of the wires end up on my legs or up my nose, and I'm a bit more comfortable when I settle down to read in the remaining hour before lights out. A weariness took hold that I could not identify; that seemed promising.

Except that I did not fall asleep at midnight as expected, even though I was more comfortable than before. Just drifting in the silent darkness.. Someone had removed the foam from the window, so hospital helicopter noise would have made sense. But there is no noise, and I drift, sliding form one end of the Stanford Sleepiness Scale to the other. I drift, dreaming unpleasantries until I wake up (or merely sit up) at the arrival of the morning scientists.

I am not looking well, they imply, and Scientist J is upset by my story of sleeplessness. Evidently I am supposed to deprive myself of sleep only on their terms, and this transgression is my fault. He sanctions a one-hour nap in the afternoon. But for now I am to lie perfectly still, starring intently at a blue dot in the ceiling while all of the tubes attached to my arms and all the wires attached to my head are passed through a hole in the wall to a machine in the next room.

Five minutes of eyes open, five minutes shut, twenty minutes eyes open, twenty minutes eyes shut. The instant I begin to fall asleep, they know, and will come and jostle me awake. This happens twice.

After this exercise I am led to the adjacent building and the PET scanner. For some reason, the hospital insists that all patients ride in a wheelchair, ambulatory or not. I'm embarrased by this, it feels uncomfortably like the waking weariness of last night.

A PET scanner, for those lucky enough to have never seen one, is a large blocky machine with a cylindrical hole. Unlike the CAT scanner, the hole is intended only for the patient's head. Like the CAT scanner, the patient must remain as motionless as possible for the control technicians to capture the picture.

Entirely new techs greet me here. I recognize the younger of the two, tech K, from Ritter's a few months ago. She wore clubbing attire then, black pants, a silver lame top and white eye-liner; now she's wearing blue scrubs like everyone else in this section of the hospital. The white eye-liner is the same.

Tech T is business-like and solictious at the same time: "When you go in, be as still as possible. Remember, you are a volunteer, and can leave at any time."
This is the first time anyone connected with the project has said anything about the possibility of me backing out, and I'm suddenly seized with an urge to do just that. Is she trying to tell me something? I'm irritated by the mandatory wheelchair ride, irritated by the extra wiring that was never supposed to be on my head this long. I'm furious about my movements being curtailed and the restriction on coffee. I want this I.V. tube out of my arm, PRONTO.

But I conceal my displeasure for the moment and step inside the machine.

Fact.

I'm losing my sense of humor about this whole thing. Less humor all around, and while I haven't spoken ill of anyone working here, I am thinking unpleasant things about their work ethic, skills and personalities. Nurse Maggie is a darling woman, but she stuck me incorrectly with the needle. I assured her that I was fine, but when she chalked it up to rhematoid arthritis, I was more irked than I let on. Why stick anyone, then? Tech C, an unpleasant woman with Disney attire under her smock and hair the color of stale wheat thins, made me wait a long time before removing the wires this morning; eating with mechanical linguini in my face isn't my favorite activity. Then there's scientist J. He has a pleasant demeanor, but I'm beginning to envision him as the chief tormentor I see far too often.

And the real problem was deeper, and would come to a head before Friday. But I didn't know what it was yet.

Despite these doubts, I aced the concentration and reflexology tests.

zzzZZZzzz..Sleep Study..zzzZZZzzz

One week of Sleep Deprivation, Radiotracers, and Wires on the Cranium.

-Saturday Night/Sunday Morning-

This is the first night of monitored sleep in the lab.
For the first time, I feel I am earning my pay.

Before today, the worse they could do is force me into some unnatural circadian rhythms. Tonight my face bristles with wires and electric hangers-on, plastic tape, and glue. When the tech finishes the application, I cannot wait to lumber to the mirror and recall some Lovecraft - but truly, this application of machinery is more invasive than I'd imagined. Low odds on this becoming the healthy night's sleep as intended; in addition to the physical discomfort of the wiring, I rarely do well the first night in a strange place.

Which is why I am surprised when I blink my eyes open at the sudden invasion of light after lying down (I thought) to check the equipment fit at 11:30. It's after midnight, (I think) but there is no clock in here to determine the time of the night shift interruption. He (or she?) mumbles an apology and disappears before I'm awake enough to respond. One thing is certain: I am now conscious of all wires, plastic tape pieces, glue dabs and electric hangers-on clinging to me in this darkened room. I will not be able to go back to sleep in a hurry.

Ever been tempted to scratch an itch? Imagine that you itch in over a dozen different places, but can't touch any of them because to do so would signal a third shift nurse with more glue and electrodes.

How long like this? Over an hour, maybe two. They tell me there is a man living in complete isolation a few doors down, sealed in an apartment for two weeks he has no way of chronicle. If my watch is made unavailable for the duration of the study, is that so different?

Coming morning, Scientist J. arrives for breakfast. When I describe last night's interruption, he acts surprised and a bit angry, and I realize that I may have inadvertently gotten someone in trouble. Because I feel alert - the loss of sleep hasn't adversely affected me yet - I check off "magnanimous" on the mood chart and change the subject.

Because it is 7:15 on a Sunday morning, we stop in the only place serving breakfast this early: McDonald's. That ought to be as healthy as the Radiotracers, but I think one trip every few years is healthy enough.

Back at the lab, the scientists set up some tests that require concentration and reaction time. I am determined to beat these tests, even under in the deprivation period, but I'll have to think up strategy for that later. There's just enough time left on Sunday to feed the cat, check messages, and head to the ballgame with the Uncle and his family, where I will be tempted to defy the study with $6.00 beer. More dangerous than alcohol is the sunstroke, which makes me so sleepy, I listen to the Anderson Little Report for almost thirty minutes before I realize that I shouldn't be hearing this at 5:20 in the afternoon. Turns out my clock has stopped (part of the study?) and I'm running late, running to the institute for the second night.

-Four Books and One Theme-

You may have heard of these.

Skipping towards Gomorrah : the seven deadly sins and the pursuit of happiness in America / Dan Savage.

False prophets : the firsthand account of a husband-wife team working for the FBI and living in deepest cover with the Montana Freemen / by Dale and Connie Jakes ; with Clint Richmond.

Coalitions across the class divide : lessons from the labor, peace, and environmental movements / Fred Rose.

Dancing at Armageddon : survivalism and chaos in modern times / Richard G. Mitchell, Jr.

It's one of my regular exercises: Select a number of books (usually 3-5) from the current affairs section of the public library. The choices are unified under a common topic, but with an apparently tenuous connection.

Inevitably, the bond between all works is stronger than it first appeared, and this time was no exception. I can only hope that someday soon, somewhere, this juxtaposition will be important.

-Tent Cities with Smattering of Dirty Books-

My hands are shaking so much the actigraph must think I'm having a seizure.

Ducks, chickens, pigs, llamas, ponies; all are confined in concentric circles of rabbit wire regurgitated from the too-small animal trailer in front of the Carnegie Public Library. The trailer belongs to Mr. Bill's Petting Zoo, and I'm feeling the almost uncontrollable urge to liberate his creatures. If they could be herded a quarter of a mile into Schenley Park, I think, they would be safe. Sadly, the area is over-patrolled today, so there will be no great escape.

The animals are here to entertain children as part of the Summer Reading Extravaganza. Mr. Bill and the other gimmicks aside, the real reason for all of the tents and volunteers is to increase membership in the summer reading program. With the State Library Budget mostly restored, organizers were given the all clear to spend like the dickens - which they almost certainly would have anyway, due to company sponsorship.

Speak of the devil; I can't see them yet, but I can hear Radio Disney minions. From time to time, the sugary pop tunes cut out, replaced by artificially hollow adolescent warbles. Much as I'd like to pick up some inexpensive books at another booth, I need to retain my composure more. Time enough to drop my items in the return box and be on my way - until a whip cracks in my path.

An older man cracks a whip on the library steps, frightening young mothers and middle-aged grandparents. He must be part of the historical society crew, since I can't imagine any national bank or international mobile phone company empowering representatives with anything so legally irresponsible.

He's got the steps to himself when I approach.

"Are you here to keep me out of the library?"

"Eh? Oh-ho, Don't worry."

-Flick of the Wrist-

I can no longer cheat the sandman. On Saturday at 2:30 P.M., Scientist J attached an Actigraph to my wrist. This tacky, waterproof spy coils around my wrist from now until the end of the sleep study, recording my movements, and, by extension, my sleep and wake times.

Fearing failure as a lab rat, I treked to the Cathedral of Learning to let the Scientists down easy. Enduring a barrage of instructions, I suggested that the experiment might not work for me since I expected X-file anomalies in my cat scans.

J scoffed at the very idea. "You're not an alien. You passed the physical tests. Your brain chemistry has nothing to do with your personality!"

It almost sounds as if he is declaring my biology, normal; my chemistry, normal; and my personality, alien.

-Table for One-and-a-half-

People often ask me: "Benedict, why not write a post for the kids?"

If I were Lewis Black, this is where I would reply: "Because I hate kids."

No! Of course not! I hate the questioners, who are invariably Children's librarians over the age of thirty who PRETEND THAT PUBERTY NEVER HAPPENED. Not simply at work, where such behavior is (arguably, but probably not) appropriate. Nay, they act this way EVERY DAMN DAY, to adults as well as children.

Oh, they will get theirs. Once I am their director, I will treat them like children. I will pay them in cookies and milk.

- But today I will do them a public service. I will connect them to this directory, and let them choose a treatment.

Children Actual, and Adults Acting like Children, learn from the little miss who sat across from me in the cafe the other day. Blond braids and an unabashed gap in her teeth, she was nearly ten, and perfectly capable of holding up her end of an adult conversation. Maybe we could not talk about social or political intricacies or alternative rock bands, but there's still plenty of material we could use: living in the city, subjects we enjoy in school, subjects we struggle with, recent movies, my coffee mug, her cocoa mug, coffee vs. cocoa (that got a bit heated), favorite foods, and art.

No goofy voices, thrown confetti, or high tech toys; it was a respectful exchange of ideas - The environment in which I taught children to read, in the Twin Cities, and in Richmond before that.

Adolescent Lucidity is not a Crime!

-Pre-sleep Study-

Eventually, scientists will attach a modified lojack to my wrist in order to make certain I am regulating my sleep as promised.

Until then, I have timesheets that are a kind of promise.

I've been cheating.

I've been cheating, but my body is also complicit. Think of all the things I could do between 11:30 P.M. (when J. wants me to sleep) and 2:30 A.M. (when my body wants to sleep)! Surely, there is nothing I couldn't do between 11:30 and 2:30 that I could not do between 6:30 A.M. and 8:30 the next day, right?

I think so, but the body isn't having it.

One week until the infernal device demands my compliance. A few predictions about how it will pan out:

-The subject stays up late and wakes up early for the study, and the brief instance of REM sleep is interrupted by the cat. The results are skewed. Science is never the same.

-After lying awake in bed for three hours, the panicked test subject attempts to disarm the wrist sensor with an eyeglass screwdriver. Science is never the same.

Or, most likely..

-The subject is unable to synch his sleep with the study through natural means. As a result, he must pick a fight every night for two weeks, and, in the course of that fight, be knocked out. Science breathes a sigh of relief.

-10 minutes after that.-

Red-tail and I were this close to getting thrown out of the Mad Mex in South Oakland. I call him Red-tail, because, at the time of this telling, I have forgotten his name, and he has red hair tied up in a pony-tail. Red pony-tail is two syllables, too long. Hence, Red-tail.

We hadn't done anything wrong, but Mad Mex closes at 1 A.M. - it was 10 minutes after that. We're talking about chairs, upended on tables. The staff puts on the music they can't play during normal business hours.

And lights. Oh, those harsh, unforgiving lights.

Tie-dye approaches with a determined look in her eye - not the plexi-glass one. I flash her the recognition symbol, and she mouths a small "oh" and disappears into the kitchen.

"I just don't understand why - how - why she would.." sobs Red-tail.

The rest is unintelligible.

"Nothing worth knowing can be understood with the mind... Everything really valuable has to enter you through a different opening, if you'll forgive the disgusting imagery."*

His response, less intelligible than the first, nevertheless communicated a clear agenda of violence.

"I have a very low threshold of death."** I stammered, unknowingly making the matter worse. But there's no fight left in Red-tail. I slap a Jefferson down on the bar and steal off into the mighty dark evening, losing myself in the hordes of amateur mixologists.

* Woody Allen, from Manhattan.
**Allen again, from Casino Royale.

-Bearded they were, with watery eyes..-

Storytellers of all stripes will gather on a green hill in the park every Saturday this summer. Among them? Perhaps myself. Certain to be there: three master storytellers who dominated the story exchange today.

They arrived, one by one, wearing collared shirts in different shades of blue. The first storyteller was slim, affable. He sported spectacles, a faint beard, and a sky-blue shirt.

The second to arrive only had a few extra pounds around his middle, and a dollop on the jowls. He wore glasses, an moderate beard, and a cerulean shirt.

The third had a stature much like the second, but stored his extra fat, we would soon discover, in his balding head. Glasses, thick beard, and a midnight-blue checkered shirt.

The audience? A retired Nabisco employee, his wife, two children's librarians, and me.

Cerulean went first, spinning a Celtic tale of Queen Maeve and her band of warriors. Arguments between the warriors in the mead hall. Horse races. A pitched battle between Connaught and Ulster. Finally, the queen takes down a boar the size of a rhino, returns to the mead hall and is regarded the greatest warrior.

I bet it killed at the Renaissance Faire. We all clapped for cerulean.

My fingers began twitching impatiently under the table. I liked Cerulean's delivery, although it didn't seem particularly difficult. Hollow stage voice? I could do that.

Midnight blue went next, telling (Inwardly, I sank into my chair) another Celtic story. I knew I was out of my league; or rather, in the wrong league. How would my contemporary tales of tangential city living be received by these Gaelic aficionados?

I heaved a sigh of relief when the sky-blue storyteller attributed his story to Italy. As it turned out, the geographic designation was rather unnecessary, unless Italy actually does boast a castle known only as "the castle" and a mountain with a dancing spring called "the enchanted mountain."

Midnight made several rude grunts throughout the telling, which admittedly could have been spiced up with some extra rhetorical tricks. But it was generally a breath of fresh air compared to the flaxen-hair-and-chainmail pomposity of the other tales, so Midnight's post-story dissection of the plot, characters, dialogue, and so on was particularly galling. I defended the sky blue fellow's story with two polite parries, and changed the subject.

This was unwise; one of the children's librarians told us a story about a mother hen, her chicks named Big Chick, Middle Chick, Little Chick and the dog preventing them from entering a garden. There's table thumping. Barking. High-pitched voices.

Kid-friendly stories from children's librarians speaking to an adult audience - surprised?

I wanted to gnaw off my own ears.

Fortunately, Cerulean revived the evening with an even-paced biographical lecture on Nellie Bly that stood out, in my opinion, as the best of the evening.

Midnight followed it with a children's tale. This was the last story of the evening, because I no longer trusted myself to speak.

So, is this the end of my Storytelling group experience? Not necessarily. You may see me when the sun plays high in the sky over the emerald hills of the park next Saturday.

Unless they talk too much about the emerald isle, or to the playground audience. Pit your Celtic heroes and Big Chicks against my slices of Americana at your own risk.