I left my camera connected to the laptop all night, so I’m out of batteries for the moment. Which means it’s back to words.
I was in my old stomping ground last week, one of the branches of the NYPL, visiting one of my favorite librarians. All the reserved books are now in an open area, so that patrons can pick up their own (by the last three letters of their last name); it seems to work pretty well. As one of the last vestiges of a public service society, barely holding its own against the theft-of-the-commonwealth that is the Market (hallowed be it’s name, amen), there’s still a lot of trust involved with libraries. But not completely: still behind the counter were all the videos, DVDs, and audio books. Lots of them; people can put 15 of them on hold, and they do. That’s what they’re checking out these days. Have to say I watched a NYPL DVD last week, and have two on hold now (vs. the nine books I currently have checked out; my reserve list is maxed at 15 books, and I’ve 13 book titles on “my list,” though I won’t necessarily read all these, of course), but I don’t think I’m really part of the problem: We’ve left the printed word behind in so many ways, and the library, which should be a bulwark against its own coming irrelevancy, shouldn’t be so readily going along with it.
One of the bottles I saw yesterday at DHB had “College Inn” on it. Hey, I announced, the famous chicken stock people! OK, so it didn’t seem to ring any bells among the half-dozen listeners within earshot, but for me the image of many half-gallon cans of the stuff bobbed out from the memories of my restaurant gig days. “College Inn,” I said again. This was right after a colloquy on one of the bones we had found. S thought the barbell-like bone was a humerus. “Collagen,” I said, finally getting it after all these years.
Mid 80s today. Almost too hot to date.