Why was it sooo important my sis and her friends shared the same tastes in music? Because just as soon as my sister started her freshman year, she bought just about every frickin' album her new-found friends had: Ohio Players, Kool and the Gang, Stevie Wonder, Average White Band, and of course, Rufus featuring the OG funk diva herself, Chaka Khan. So while I out in the living room trying to discern the subtleties buried in The Spinners' Rubberband Man during their guest appearances on The Mike Douglas Show, my sister was seriously making out with her boyfriend in mom's sewing room while Chaka was moaning for someone to tell her something good. And this was every day after school.
On weekends my sister and her cohorts-in-crime would play Love Rollercoaster by the Ohio Players over and over, trying to find the exact point where the model on the cover screamed because she was being offed while the song was being recorded--at least that was the rumor going around at the quad at school. When I made timid forays into rock by buying Cat Stevens and Neil Diamond records, my sister was pickin' up the pieces after football games by dressing up and buying liquor for her friends.
By the time I left for college, I was all-too-familiar with the Jungle Boogie and Living in the City. I was happy that now I would be with my tribe: the overeducated and undersocialized. I didn't have to listen to the wailing and heavy breathing that wound from my sister's stereo into my room. I thought I was free.
Until I tacked a poster of The Commodores (from their eponymous album) on my dorm room wall the day I moved in (and after my sister left). Maybe it was the opening riff to Brickhouse, or the fact that I landed a roommate with a passion for Charlie and chocolate chip cookie dough (two bowls in one sitting, in fact). Or that after four solid years of funk/soul/rubber, my synapses had finally capitulated.
It's twenty-five years later and I'm still listening, even though my sister now listens to Celine Dion and schmaltzy Bette Midler albums.
Hey--somone's gotta keep the funk alive....
If you've been following this blog for any length of time (all three of you), you may have noticed my constant references to hip-hop and soul. How does a fortysomething, Amerasian librarian come to love such things?
It's very simple: it's my sister's fault.
To explain, I must harken back to the halcyon days of the seventies, when Precious Moments figurines ruled the land and blacklight "Keep on Truckin" posters were had by all. I was a delicate, dorky thing, given to reading Star Trek novels and wearing fifty-cent Kmart Blue Light Specials dresses my mother bought. My sister, though almost two years younger than me, was light-years ahead in terms of--socialization. I can still see her in her bedroom, surrounded by her white princess bedroom set from Levitz, pawing through her Frye boots, looking for the bottle of Barcardi 151 she and her pom-pom gal-pals bought the Friday night before. Memories.....
So while I was trying to hook rubbberbands around my headgear and slog through QB VII for the naughty bits, my sister began hanging out with the cool crowd in high school--Filipino, Guamanian and Latino kids--the "brown" kids (as they called themselves) who were in my class, but had no idea who I was or that my sister and I were even related. And because she looked like (and still looks like) a vaguely-Asian version of Janet Jackson, she was insanely popular. (How popular? The first person I met in college was a guy who recognized my sister as she was helping me move into the dorm.)
Besides eternal search for keggers at a friend's house in Green Valley, what did the cool crowd and my sister have in common? A deep abiding love for Rufus and Earth, Wind and Fire....
(To be continued)
Cite of the Day:
This one comes courtesy from the spring-forward mind of Pam Deemer with the MacMillan Law Library at Emory University:
"Grand Entrances: Dress Up Your Basic Main Entry With Fanciful and Daring Added Entries In This Season's Kicky New Colors!" In Cosmopolitan Cataloger, October 1997, p. [36-45] : col. ill.
PUBLIB is running a thread on why people are reluctant to ask for help in a library. Several posters state it's a no-no to use the h-word when asking patrons if they need assistance. I had no idea that the simple act of asking someone if they need help sends certain individuals screaming into the stacks without a even an ISBN number.
So why is it so hard to ask us for help? Is it the pilled sweater pulled over last summer's reading contest t-shirt? The latte stain on the knit tie? Or that blizzard of crumpled kleenex that spills out of our sleeves when we bend over to pick up a miniature golf pencil? Maybe it's because some patrons harbor a deep, dark fear of the library and its inhabitants, from the homeless guy snoring face down in the middle of the latest issue of Allure to the slightly creepy library tech who just loves shelving books in the true crime section. So what do we as professionals do? According to the latest research in phobia treatment, sufferers who confront their fears head-on or even try slightly risky behavior (running to the edge of the roof of a high-rise building for those with vertigo, for instance) do better than those who indulge in avoidance behavior. As a public service to those of you dealing with shy patrons, I present possible opening salvos that are guaranteed to help them face their worst lack-of-knowledge nightmare:
Please--no need to thank me. The next time see a previously-timid patron sauntering up to the reference desk bursting with confidence due to your constant barrage of humiliating questions, just think of me.
Okay folks; it's that time again--time to highlight Craigslist.org's best of librarian trolls!
What I'm Listening To After I Watch National News: B.O.B. by Outkast
What I'm Listening To After a Wardrobe Malfunction: His Story by TLC. Peace
out, Lisa Lopes....
