I've had a recurring nightmare since graduating from library school. No, I'm not shelving in the 700's au naturel or falling or drowning. This is worse...

I'm at a library conference.

I can still remember introducing myself to the other six teaching assistants. This one a sci-fi guy, that one a sci-fi girl, the vegan man with the shaved legs but unshaved face, something of an eco-cyclist, chatting with the disheveled woman about her precocious cat Sebastian. So that's what a litter box smells like. Had my K-Swiss been ruby red, I would have clicked them. I clicked them anyway. How did I get here?

I've always been the competitive type. Still am. I played baseball and tennis in college, qualifying for the Nationals in the latter. Fifteen hundred miles only to be dismissed in about the same time to bake, and for some eat, one of those foiled Banquet Dinners with the burnt apple-something dessert. Rolando Zamora was his name. And I can't even remember my wedding anniversary.

Between practice and class, I picked up a job in the university library. Interlibrary Loan. I wondered if I may be doing book repo's or financing fines here but soon learned what it meant to hustle 50+ OCLC requests in three hours. Who would have known, while banding those books I was being watched, perhaps scouted, by two of the most revered ambassadors of our profession? Baker and Taylor. I can still see that poster today.

Did I mention I'm not a cat person?

I've long since retired my glove and racket. Now I run marathons, giving me a clearer conscience for participating in my favorite race, the "sofa-fridge relay". (It's a relay because I'm carrying something like a sandwich, cookie, maybe another sandwich. I think of these as edible batons.) I'm also still in the library, although for different reasons learned from ten years of hobnobbing on the wine and cheese circuit.

I have a passion for digging. Facts, trivia, anything with a date or number. I still remember hopping in bed with my 1975 Guinness Book of Records. The size of that worm, that creepy guy with the fingernails, that drivable missile on the Bonneville Salt Flats, my greasy little paw prints on that peach cover. And there it began, my love for books.

I don't do fiction. I don't do pop culture either, bidding adieu sometime in the 80's or about the time Falco was rocking to Amadeus. Too many acquiesce to their environment. Not me. When not doing my academic library director thing, I'm with my family.

My wife is a molecular biologist and like me, very competitive. When not stacking gene traits for corn and soy, she's shooting near scratch golf. She also shares my political disposition, conservative. Our daughter is seven. When not tapping words with her reading finger that seems better utilized for booger forays, we are usually cozied up to something on TVLand. You may have read this about me before; I've walked away from titillation.

Thanks for reading.

One last thing.

For the few folks that still appear to be interested in "outing" me, I'm fully aware of what I've disclosed as well as who visits this wretched site. All assumptions and initiative to visit are made on your behalf.

Thanks for visiting just the same.