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The subject line is a teaser, naturally. What sort of immorality are we talking about? Heroin-shooting librarians? Gluttonous librarians? Menage a librarian?

To get to the answer, you'll have to first read through a paragraph of whining. (I suppose the very clever among you will realize that you can skip to the next block of text after a line break, but none of my readers except Marian are very clever.) (That was just a joke, other readers.) So here's my whiny bit: OH SWEET LORD BUT I AM TERRIBLE AT SOCIAL INTERACTION. It's like middle school all over again. I have this desperate need to fit in and to get to know people and to have them like me, and I don't have the first clue how to go about doing it. I have decided to stop going to work because the social anxiety is just unbearable. I am going to stay home and do crossword puzzles. But don't worry, I've made an arrangement to have Jessica Kennedy-Rockefeller fill in for me.

Now then. Immoral librarians. Here's the question: To what extent are librarians obligated to read books they don't like?

(I suppose it's a stretch to couch this in terms of morality, but I like speaking about moral absolutes. It's nice having God on my side.)

I posit that every public librarian needs to read The Da Vinci Code and Harry Potter and the [pick one]. These are unique cultural phenomena. You simply have to read them to be in tune with your patrons.

Beyond Dan Brown and J.K. Rowling, though-- what's the obligation? What books do we need to read to best serve our patrons? Do we even need to read them at all? Are book reviews acceptable substitutes?

On the far side of the debate you have the laissez-faire librarians, whose argument goes something like this: "I'm not in high school anymore. Leave me the fuck alone." On the other side of the debate you have... me. I think a good librarian needs to read widely in all the main genres (fiction AND nonfiction) and in emerging genres such as Urban Fiction and Street Lot. Reading should include a sampling of seminal genre works, current buzz-worthy titles, and bestsellers.

It's a nice idea, but there are two big dilemmas: you might not like a particular genre, and even the most diligent of us don't have enough time to keep up with everything. Things get especially ugly when everything you read is for duty and nothing is for personal pleasure.

Even I don't have enough time to read as widely as I should, and I have remarkably few distractions: I don't watch teevee, I don't have kids, I don't trouble my pretty little head with housework.

So if Little Miss Boring here doesn't have time to complete a comprehensive study of the genres, there's no way that normal people can be expected to.

And yet...

And yet. I think we ought to try. (Librarians, I mean. All you other folks? You're not in high school anymore.) To be truly good librarians, we ought to read outside our comfort zones, and we ought to be fluent in all the major genres. You can fake it okay by reading reviews, but for a visceral understanding of what your patrons want, you need to read what they read. Amen.

I am going to go do a crossword puzzle. Leave me the fuck alone.

Got me a brilliant pun and nowhere to use it. Solzhenitsyn just doesn't come up in conversation much these days. Just more evidence of the moral decline of society for ya.

I got to be a ghoul this evening. I drove over to Claremont, a lovely gem of a town hidden on a corner of the James River. (Do rivers have corners...?) The librarian in Claremont, a coworker from my previous job, is a dear friend and a stunning corpse bride. She and her library assistant, the blood-sucking Sue, put together a spectacular haunted house, along with some other do-gooders from Claremont. Or evil-doers, in this case.

I ponied up my two dollars to tour the house. The gaggle of teen girls in my group were scared shitless. Me, I'm too cynical to be scared by stuff like that. My idea of scary is global warming, or the rising cost of housing, or pop rock. But I appreciate the effort. It really was very good, and certainly scary for everyone except hardasses like me.

After my tour, I got to be a ghoul. I stood in a corner and grabbed people. It was fun.

The best part of the haunted house was the Scary Books display. Featured authors were Nora Roberts and Rush Limbaugh.

Tomorrow is Halloween, aka The One Day Each Year When I Can Dress Like A Trailer Slut And Get Away With It (TODEYWICDLATSAGA). Except I can't dress tooooo slutty at work. It's not professional. Well actually it's very professional, in the Oldest Profession sense, but not in the librarian sense. So I'm probably just going to toss together a mishmash of goth/slut/punk stuff, while carefully ensuring that nipples, reproductive organs, et. al., are sufficiently hidden.

Besides, they can't make me hide my sexiest part, my brain.

(That's what people are attracted to, right? Brains and intelligence. Right? .... right?  ....)

[Echo gradually fades to silence. End scene.]

In honor of Jessica Kennedy-Rockefeller's first day of work with the new library, the staff scrambled to bring in an author of national import. Though she had hoped for J.K. Rowling, Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller appreciates that finishing Book 7 is perhaps more urgent than welcoming a new employee. Perhaps.

Instead, Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller settled for an author visit from Rita Mae Brown, who turned out to be a very engaging, comical speaker. This flies in the face of all logic, as RMB co-authors books with her kitty, Sneaky Pie Brown. You just can't trust people like that.

Unsurprisingly, the staff at the new library were all very eager to meet the new employee. Undoubtedly this is because Ms. K-R's reputation precedes her, and not at all because everyone else can now stop working overtime.

It was mildly disconcerting that no one offered to accompany Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller on her lunch break, but on reflection it makes perfect sense: the new coworkers must have assumed that Ms. K-R already had lunch dates with famous celebrities from her own inner circle. The new coworkers don't yet realize that Ms. K-R is gracious enough to dine with ordinary, everyday librarians. As her reputation for humility spreads, the other librarians will surely overcome their intimidation and venture to request the pleasure of her company.

As a final note, the masses may rest easy concerning Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller's clothing ensemble for the first day. She did not, in fact, show up to work naked, as she had dreamt (though of course that would have been a stunning and satisfying display in many, many ways). Instead, she wore a knock-out, flowing orange skirt (which is actually too long for her, but you can't tell because she pulls it up to her boobs) and a conservative but flattering cotton black blouse. The shirt showcased Ms. K-R's elegant eighth-note tattoo; when pressed, her new boss said that the display of visible tattoos had never before been an issue, so until she hears otherwise, Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller will proudly display her body art. Most of it, anyway; she might wait a bit before showing off the nipple ring.

Haven't even been in the apartment three days and already we've got two violations against the neighborhood drug policy. Goblin and Gremlin showed up stoned. I drugged them for the car ride to Williamsburg, and here it is twelve hours later and they're still glassy-eyed.

I collapsed into bed this evening at 7. I woke at midnight. Damn.

Apparently a very thin wall is the only thing separating my bed from the next apartment's noisy teevee. Damn again.

Can't get the wireless working. Gonna try a different router. For now I'm connected to the modem with a wire. What is this, the Dark Ages? It's like freakin 2003 all over again. Damn damn damn.

But that's really all I can complain about, unless you count my tummy, and how empty it is. I ate some leftover rigatoni this evening. Couldn't find a fork, despite having purchased two different sets of plastic utensils to tide me over till all the silverware gets unpacked. Had to use a paring knife. (Had never used it before-- glad to know it's useful for something. Glad I was even able to identify it, for that matter.) Sliced my lip. I suppose that's what you get for eating with a knife.

Also punched myself in the nose while wrestling with some packing tape. Should have used the paring knife on that box.

But overall I'm very pleased. Thanks to Dad, Crystal, Crystal's boyfriend Jon, or possibly John, and Crystal's 4-year-old Marlee, all my junk is here in the apartment. All I've got to do is unpack. I can get that done before I start work on Thursday. Right?

This is the story of the smartest thing I have ever, ever done. What makes it incredible is that I was asleep.

At that time in my life I was seeing… let's call him Ivan Karamazov. (The guy didn't resemble IK in the slightest, but never mind.) Ivan wasn't the demonstrative sort. Nor was he the talkative sort. If you asked him a direct question he would grunt. I spent entire evenings with him without hearing him form a complete sentence.

We'd been dating for a few months and I had no idea what he felt about me. Did he think I was pretty? Did he enjoy my company? Did he find me annoying? Couldn't tell ya then. Still couldn't tell ya.

This complete lack of communication made me nervous. One night I had a dream about it, in which he wrote me a letter. The body of the letter was bland. It entirely failed to mention me, or his feelings toward me.

But the signature… Ah, that's the kicker. This is exactly what it looked like in my dream:

LOVE*

Ivan

*Lack Of Viable Ending

---

Let's dissect this. I was nervous about Ivan's lack of communication and I was unsure of how he felt toward me. My subconscious had him write a letter, but, in keeping with his character, it was vague. He signed it with what would normally be a very clear indicator, "love," but he was using it ironically. And why was it ironic? Because it was actually an apronym.

In my freakin' sleep I made a play on words. Not just any play on words, but a situationally appropriate play. It embodied Ivan's feelings and it did it in a (wryly) humorous place in his letter that further underscored his ambiguity toward me.

I suppose if I were really smart I'd figure out how to turn this into money.

For a change, I thought I'd be honest in the subject line. I really am going to talk about sex, and specifically, about orientation.

If you don't feel like reading about my personal bidness (which is, frankly, inconceivable) then skip down futher in the blog to where I talk shit about Dune. I just hate that book.

I didn't have room to go into detail on my profile, but I don't want to keep my sexual identity secret. Three cheers for glasnost and perestroika! (??! ??! ??!)  I don't want other sexual minorities accusing me of secreting it away-- though honestly, "lesbrarian" should be a bit of a clue.

Also, this could prove to be a big time-saver. Next time I want to date someone-- wait, no, that's ridiculous. Ms. Kennedy-Rockefeller does not deign to date people. She is saving herself for Johnny Depp. But other people, vis., everyone who meets her, want to date Ms. K-R, and this little essay can clear up some misconceptions for them.

Humor me first in a spot of lecture: Sexual orientation is typically not static. Think of it as a continuum. Allll the way on one side you have 100% straight, and alllll the way on the other side you have 100% gay, and most of us fall somewhere in between. Even better, most of us slide around on that continuum. It can change day-to-day, or it can change over a lifetime. You've probably heard a story about a woman who was happily married to a man, and then discovered her lesbian side late in life after he died. It happens.

Unfortunately, not all of us know where we fall on the orientation continuum. Lots of us don't even question it. I sure didn't, not for years-- this despite finding women physically attractive. Most people assume they're straight unless there's overwhelming evidence to the contrary. It's a function of our society's compulsive heterosexuality

The catch-all phrase for anyone who is not strictly, reliably straight is "sexual minority." This is cumbersome. The other catch-all phrase is "queer." Some folks still use it as a slur, but the rest of us are tickled pink about it, as it were.

End lecture.

I prefer to identify as queer, because my other option, "bisexual," doesn't really work. "Bisexual" implies that I view both sexes equally. I don't.

Oh hell, I need to lecture again. Sorry.

Sex vs. gender: Sex is biological. You have two main choices, male or female. (A tiny fraction of people are transsexual. Because of unusual chromosomes, they fall somewhere in between.) Genitals are a dead giveaway for sex. Secondary sex characteristics such as breasts or facial hair are usually good clues.

Gender is a social construct. It is made up. It is not caused by sex organs. Gender is assigned by society, by parents, by peers. Gender, like orientation, is on a continuum. You can be very girly or very manly or somewhere in between, and you can switch back and forth whenever you want.

Rule: sex is between your legs. Gender is between your ears..

End lecture, again.

Like I was saying, I don't view both sexes equally. My emotional responses are usually toward men. When I fall in love or get a crush, it's usually over a man. Because of this tendency, I was 20 before it occured to me that I wasn't straight.

Physically, I think lots of women and lots of men are hot. Alas, I think lots of them are unattractive.

And sexually, I prefer women. I don't really enjoy sex with men. Maybe I haven't met the right man yet. I'm not going to let past disappointments prevent me from future seductions. But women? Totally erotic. Breasts are awesome.

Unfortunately, I can't stand most women. This is embarassing to admit, what with having a degree in women's studies. I'm a die-hard feminist and, in theory, I am all about some womyn. It's just that particular examples can be so very irritating. I have trouble making friends with women. (Obviously.)

My perspective is stereotypically male: I think they're hot and I'd like to go to bed with them, but dear sweet Jesus I wish they'd shut up.

...Ah. In reading this over, I think I've alienated... let's see here... yes: I've alienated the whole human race. I don't want to talk to women and I don't want to sleep with men.

Well shit.

I need this t-shirt:

http://www.cafepress.com/bridezilla.38182230

WTFWJD, indeed.

The brillliant thing is, the person responsible for this is studying to be a minister. I read about her in Bust.

For her, I'd get religion. I'd be the most faithful member of the flock.

Get it? Get it? It's that Simon and Garfunkle song, The Boxer. That's me! I'm the boxer! I packed two boxes this weekend, because "I am leaving, I am leaving."

...'s a stretch, isn't it.

Two boxes isn't much headway, but the weekend ain't over yet. Plus I packed two other boxes full of books I'm gonna donate to the library.

Note to non-librarians: DO NOT TRY THIS YOURSELF. Libraries hate donations. You think you're doing them a favor but you're not. The librarians have to research each title to make a judgment call about whether it should be added. If it is added, the catalogers have to spend time cataloging it. If it isn't, they can try to hock it at a booksale, and if that fails, they have to throw it out.

You wanna help out a library, donate money. You wanna give away your books, try a senior citizen's home, or a prison. (The people there are captive readers, har har.)

I'm having a lot of moving anxiety, as anyone with a second-grade or better reading level could tell at a glance from my blog. I'm having anxiety dreams every night about the move and the job.

Most embarassing dream: I failed to discreetly pack my vibrator, so it was out in plain sight. Dad didn't recognize what it was, picked it up, and then kenned on.

As expected, I already had the dream about showing up on the wrong day (yeesh, Id, that's so cliche, I'm disappointed in you) and I had a dream wherein I moved to the wrong apartment and I've had plenty of dreams where my new coworkers realize I'm a fraud.

I had the same anxieties prior to my current job, but at least back then I didn't know who my coworkers would be. I distinctly recall a dream in which Britney Spears was a librarian. That's more absurd than frightening. But this time around, I know two of my to-be-coworkers fairly well, and I have a passing acquaintance with a few others. Each night my psyche draws on these known entities and methodically makes an ass of me in front of them.

I am slightly mollfied by some reassuring words from Joyce, arguably the coolest librarian out there. (Let's call her the coolest retired librarian out there; that way I don't have to pick between her and Kaite.)

"Barry's so lucky to get you!" she said. What a great lady. Not "you're so lucky to be going there," but "they're so lucky to snag you." Remind me to send her a really nice Christmas gift.

I'm nervous about the new job, sure, but there are a few specific points I am not worried about. Maybe I can stretch it into ten points... yeah, here we go:

Top Ten Things I'm Not Worried About Concerning The New Job

1. In my first week on the job, HR director will ask me, and I quote, "So where do you go to church?"

This really happened. She assumed A) that I had a faith, that B) that faith was of a Christian variety, and C) that I attended services as part of this Christian faith. Oh, and D), that it was appropriate to ask me about A) through C).

I'll post my views on religion some other time, but for now all you need to know is that I do not go to church. There are a variety of reasons for this, but here's the most compelling one for a person living in Franklin: there are two main church options, Baptist and Southern Baptist.

2. Also in the first week on the job the technology director will engage me in a debate over whether homosexuality is a sin.

...there I was, trying to make a good impression and all, but feeling personally attacked. Though really I shouldn't have taken it personally. I still don't think the lady realizes I'm not straight.

3. I will have to fight with my director to purchase a copy of Genreflecting. ("But it's so expensive!")

In fact, lemme check right now.... Yep. They've got two copies of the most recent edition, as well as several of the older editions.

4. My director will call Publishers Weekly, quote, "a waste."

5. My director will quake when I ask to acquire Booklist (very cheap, compared to PW... she finally capitulated.)

6. Ditto that on Reference & User Services Quarterly.  (Director did not capitulate. Had to take out a personal membership. Do I look like I'm made out of money? Do I?)

7. I won't be able to get a decent haircut within an hour's drive.

8. Director will tell me that my Zane pathfinder was a waste of time.

9. In same conversation, director will have the hubris to tell me that if she doesn't know who Zane is, the customers won't.

10. Vast majority of coworkers will turn green when I bring in foods completely foreign to them, to wit: couscous, tabouli, hummus, and-- this is the kicker-- barley. I grant you the other dishes are Middle Eastern and/or African, but people and livestock alike have been eating barley on North America since... since... well for a very long time.

And 11, as an encore: I will have to educate all of my coworkers, including the director, as to what NoveList is, and why it's nifty that I write for them.

And what the hell, 12: I will get no mentoring or guidance concerning professional avenues such as service on committees or professional publication.

When I asked my director if I should do either of the above, she said no, there was no real reason to.

The totally bizarre thing is, I'd like to serve on committees at a state or national level, and I'd like to write for a professional journal. In library school I swore to myself that I would never write professional library literature. By and large it is dry and uninspired. I have too much self worth to contribute anything to IP&M or American Archivist. Got better things to do with my time, ya know?

But while on the job I've discovered there are some professional issues I'd like to talk about it, and honey, fiction-l just ain't cuttin it. Getting that group to discuss an actual topic is harder than killing fleas. (My posts to that listserv have generated a lot of very cool off-list discussion with enlightened individuals, though. Yay!)

Still have not figured out how to go about writing for cool journals, or how to get libraries in exotic places to invite me as a paid guest lecturer, or how to get myself on a panel discussion at a conference, but in a few short weeks I'll have some knowledgeable co-workers to pump for information.

As usual, the lusty headline of this post is just a cheap trick to get you to read something that is not lusty whatsoever. Sorry.

I do want to talk about fantasies, though, or more accurately about Fantasy, the genre. And Horror and Science Fiction while we're at it. Collectively, the three genres are known as Speculative Fiction. Collectively, the three genres ought to be my favorites. In reality, they're a continual source of disappointment. Like Charlie Brown with Lucy's football, I keep going back for more, thinking this time it will be different. But there's just so much crap being published in SF that I have to settle for a Suspense or a... well, a Suspense. God bless you, Jeffery Deaver.

I am a total slut for anything paranormal. (Hey! That was lusty! Kind of!) I am the tiniest bit psychic-- remind me to post that story someday-- and I have this embarassing fascination with supernatural stuff.

Case in point: Lo these many years ago, when I watched television, I couldn't enough of the X-Files. I would actually cancel dates to watch it.

(This is not true, at all. I didn't have dates in high school.)

(Who am I kidding. I don't have dates now.)

And I love being scared. And I prefer dismal endings to happy endings. Which might explain why I love Russian novels.

I'm a prime candidate for loving speculative fiction. It is the segment of popular literature for us folks who won't read anything that could be described as wholesome, or heart-warming, or inspiring. If you cannot abide the thought of an adorable critter solving a mystery, give SF a try. (Or hard-boiled or noir. That could work, too.)

So whatssamatter with me? Why oh why can I not be content?

Perhaps because I am undersexed. That would explain a lot, really.

But more to the point, I just don't like the SF books being published. There are exceptions, of course, like anything written by Ian McDowell. (Yes, I'm pandering to Ian. I know he likes it, same as his uromastyx likes to be scratched behind her ears, or where I assume her ears are.) Ian has written two Dark Fantasy novels, Mordred's Curse and Merlin's Gift, and lots of disturbing short stories. But most SF is disappointing. Let's criticize the genres separately, shall we?

Fantasy. A common criticism is that there's nothing new. I'm pretty lenient about conventions, but even I get weary of beautiful, noble elves and belligerent, hairy dwarves. But my bigger complaint is with sloppy editing and sloppier writing.

I'm gonna pick on C. S. Friedman, cuz she just sucks. (Or is it C. J.? ...C. Something Friedman.) She used the word "mere" or "merely" twenty-three times in three chapters. I counted.

Not everyone's as bad as C. Whatever Friedman, but very little fantasy rises above mediocrity. It's a shame. Just because a story includes wizards or goblins doesn't mean it has to sacrifice artful writing or sensible word choice.

Science Fiction tends to have very cool plots and lousy characters. The narration is usually very distant-- impersonal, like-- and the style is usually dry. 'S all right if that's your kind of thing, I guess, but me? I like to get emotionally involved with the story and the characters. (Maybe this is why women don't read science fiction.)

And horror-- well, I only have one main criticism of horror. The characters are usually much better than what you find in science fiction; otherwise you wouldn't be horrified when the monster eats them. The plots are good ("Hey! A monster's gonna eat us!") and the writing is no worse and no better than in most genres.

So what's my problem? Y'all, I haven't been scared by a horror novel since I was 11. What's the point of reading horror if you don't get scared?

I'm willing to concede that the problem here might lie with me, not with the genre as a whole... (But seriously, was anyone actually scared by The Haunting of Hill House? Or Matheson's Hell House? They put me to sleep. Am I obtuse?)

If anyone knows of a book that's really, truly scary, let me know about it, kay? In return, I'll tell you about a SF books that don't suck. They do exist, if you know where to look for them.

Horror. Fat White Vampire Blues (Andrew Fox) is more about humour than horror, but it technically counts. Our hero is portly because he lives in New Orleans, where all of his entrees are fat. (See? See what I mean? Isn't that funny?)

'Salems Lot, by Stephen King, was the last book that scared me. You'll recall that I was 11, and you'd probably be hard pressed to find any 11 year old who wouldn't be scared of it, but I'm guessing there are a lot of adults who might get a tingle, too. Vampires infest small town. Terror ensues. Lots of gore and thwarted love, too, just the way I like it.

John Bellairs writes kids' book, but they're pretty creepy for all that. He's good for ghosts and mummies, that sort of thing. He's always making his boy-next-door heroes face eternal undead evil. Good stuff.

Science Fiction. Connie Willis, I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Read The Doomsday Book, and read it now. It is time-travel science fiction with awesome characters, unexpectedly funny bits, nasty diseases, and the sinking suspicion that everyone is doomed.

Dune-- just kidding! I think Dune totally sucks! BLEARGH!

Kurt Vonnegut is kind of miffed that he's been pegged as a Science Fiction writer, but that's not preventing me from mentioning him here. You've got lots of choices for older science fiction (Ray Bradbury, anyone?) but I think Vonnegut is the most compassionate and readable of the lot. Welcome to the Monkey House is a collection of his short stories, SF and otherwise, in which you'll find the classic dystopian "Harrison Bergeron."

Lois Lowry, like John Bellairs, is a children's writer with appeal for adults. The Giver is a Newbery winner and is the first of her dystopian trilogy. Bear in mind that dystopias are often simplistic (gotta make sure the dire warning hits home), and of course children's writing is usually simplistic, and yet Lowry still manages a complex, sophisticated story. She is capabale of tugging at the emotions, oh my yes. Immediately after finishing the last line in her trilogy, I set the book down and said "You bitch." I'm still pissed at her for the way she twisted my heart.

Fantasy. Guess I should mention Neil Gaiman at this point, though I could have done so under the other two genres, as well. Neil Gaiman is an astounding writer. I am unutterably grateful that he chooses to write stories with witches and zombies instead of contemplative middle-aged women. Go read his Sandman series. (Actually, I would prefer if you first read my NoveList piece on him, and then read the Sandman series.)

I feel silly writing about J.K. Rowling. If you're not familiar with her by this point, well, there's really nothing I can do... know why I'm such a Harry Potter fan? It's because the books affect me like nothing, bar nothing, has done since I was a kid. When I was a kid I could totally get into my books. As an adult I have never been able to recapture that escapism, with the sole exception of the HP series. After book 7 comes out, I won't have a reason to live.

I feel silly writing about Terry Pratchett here, too. Yeah, he's a fantasy writer, but only incidentally. First a foremost he's a satirist. He happens to satirize fantasy, but then again he happens to satirize everything under the sun. But hey, it counts. He's the funniest writer alive. So there.