Reference Desk Deja Vu

I had a student come up to the desk a few weeks ago because he was looking for a book. I looked it up on the catalog, wrote down the call number for him, and pointed him in the right direction. I might have even walked him up to the stacks to show him where the book would be located. At any rate, he found what he was looking for. Transaction successful.

A few days later I had another request for the same book. This is not so unusual since multiple students will often be looking for the same book that their instructor recommended. I repeated the reference process. Catalog, call number, right-direction pointing. Another successful transaction.

Last week another student asked again for the same book. I took a good look at him. I recognized him as the same guy who'd asked for it before, and then I realized that it was him who had asked for it both previous times. This wasn't a case of several students looking for the same book, but of one student looking for the same book again and again. So I said, "Didn't you ask for it twice already last week?" He nodded his head.

I'm happy to pad my reference statistics, but it didn't feel very educational for me to keep looking up this guy's book for him. He told me he needed the book for his (remedial) reading class. I don't know why he doesn't just check it out instead of seeking it out in the stacks twice a week.

So I said, "Why don't I show you how to look it up, so you can do it yourself from now on? Do you remember when I visited your class and showed you how to use our catalog?" (I visited all the reading classes, so I know he completed the training.) He nodded absently. For the third time in two weeks I took him through the motions of finding the catalog and looking up a book. He stared off into the library and didn't pay attention. Finally I said to him (in a friendly voice), "I'm happy to help you find stuff, but if you're going to need this book so often you really should know how to look it up. That's why you're in college."

In the end, I just wrote down the call number on a slip of paper and said, "Keep that slip of paper and you can use that to find the book next time."

I'm reminded of the famous quote by the great statesmen, W: "Is our children learning?"

Indeed.

I Don't Sleep, Then I Rock

Here's a quick summary of my preparation and performance in my latest tennis league match:

1. I don't sleep well
2. I don't sleep well again
3. I'm exhausted
   
4. I can't nap
5. I rock. I rock I rock I rock. I rock I rock I rock. I rock I rock I rock. I rock I rock I rock. I rock I rock I rock.

I think I'm going to have to re-evaluate the image I have of myself as a choker on the tennis court. Over the past month I have been involved in five tiebreaks and I have won them all. I have fought off countless break points, set points, and match points. I am clutch. I win when it counts. Yay me.

In my latest league match I avenged the drubbing I received (6-1, 6-0) three weeks ago at the Labor Day Tournament. I'd never beaten this particular opponent, although I've come close many times.

I'd slept horribly the two nights leading up to the match and I felt exhausted. I tried to nap for an hour before the match but I only got about 20 minutes of actual sleep. I was just hoping I would have enough adrenaline to get me through two hours of intense tennis. I think the lack of sleep might have actually helped me, because I made a concentrated effort to conserve energy on the court. I had to win with strategy instead of energy.

The first set was very close. I won the first two games, then he won three, then we went back and forth. Early on I figured out a strategy that worked really well for me. Because I have a weak serve, this particular guys stands ridiculously close to the service line on my serve. It's as if he's taunting me to try to hit a hard deep serve. A few times I was able to brush him back, but occasionally it unnerved me. So while I was standing back about to return his serve, I had a brilliant thought: Why don't I do the same thing to him? I moved up really far on his second serve, and he double-faulted. I did the same thing on the next point, with the same result. I'd rattled him. The rest of the match I changed my position constantly on his serve, moving up and back randomly. This really got in his head and he didn't serve well at all.

I had the chance to win the first set at 5-4 and again at 6-5, but he battled back to tie it. So we went to a tiebreak in the first set. The old Tim might have thought, "Okay, here is where I choke." But since I'd won so many tiebreaks lately, I told myself, "You can win this. You're the guy who wins tiebreaks." I came out to a quick 4-1 lead, and then had four set points at 6-2. Then I lost two points and thought, "Uh-oh, this would be a huge choke if I lost now." But I won the next point to take the set.

In the second set he fell apart. I started playing more like Old Tim, a defensive style where I just barely get the shots back, and he kept missing everything. He was frustrated and angry and let it get to him. I won the first four games easily. (About this time I could smell victory and thoughts started popping into my head about how I would blog about this, my greatest tennis triumph so far. I know it was completely premature and I'm lucky it didn't bite me in the ass.) In the fifth game, he was serving and we had a long game that went to deuce several times. But every time he had a game point, I would battle back to tie it. I kept telling myself, "You win this game and it will completely break his spirit." And I did win it.

Up 5-0 and serving for the match, now it was my turn to choke. We had another deuce game, and I blew one match point before he won the game. Then he won the next two games and I started getting nervous. It was 5-3 and I knew he was capable of winning six games in a row against me if he got hot. I had to get over this psychological hump and end it. In the next game I went up 40-0 and I said to myself, "Okay, let's see you handle three match points." He won one point, then I hit a nice cross-court forehand that he lunged at but missed. I won, 7-6(4), 6-3.


I was very happy. I'm having a great start to my "junior year" of tennis (it's my third season.) I'm currently 3-0 and tied for first place in the Bronze league. Two years ago I was in the basement of the beginner's league. Last year I won the beginner's league to move into Bronze league, where I was solidly middle of the pack, going 4-3 and then 3-4. Now I'm in a position to think about winning the league.

I've come a long way. At this rate I'm only about 40 years away from playing at the Wimbledon.

Art and Food

A few weeks ago I bought some new posters to fill some empty spaces on my walls. I put one in a frame and hung it on my wall:


And the other one is still sitting on a chair in the corner, but I admire it every time I walk from the living room to places beyond:


These works of "stationary art" complement my pair of furry "moving art" pieces:


Which are sometimes so inaccessible that I have to crawl under the bed to admire them:


Up until a few weeks ago, this is what the corner of my kitchen counter top looked like:

This is a small sample of some of the more exotic beer bottles that I've emptied over the past few months. I know it makes my apartment look like a dorm room, but it's nice to have some tangible reminder of what I did with my summer.

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Bachelor Feed, Part Two: Return of the Crockpot

Then last week I discovered that I have two cookbooks left in my apartment. One of them happens to be a guide to "feasting with your slow cooker." I checked in my cupboards and discovered, to my amazement, that I own a slow cooker!

A "slow cooker" is apparently a lamer name for what I know as a "crockpot." A crockpot is something you throw a bunch of ingredients into and then let it cook all day and make your house smell like food. What a brilliant invention.

I decided I would try it out, so I selected a recipe (Lemon Garlic Chicken) and bought the ingredients at the grocery. I also bought measuring cups, measuring spoons, and a salt and pepper shaker-- all things that I've lived without for the past six months.



I am currently slow cooking (crockpotting?) my Lemon Garlic Chicken:

It smells as good as it looks.

Wordle

This is a word soup of my last few blog entries, compliments of Wordle. A whole lot of tennis & politics, with a dash of food thrown in.

Bachelor Feed

Last Saturday I had an inspiration: Maybe I'll cook!

So I went to the kitchen to look up some ideas in the cookbooks that live in the microwave stand. Only they weren't there. All that was left were two useless books-- one of them was a thin book on sauces, about the size of a kid's picture book. What the hell am I going to do with a book on sauces?

You see, Rebecca took all the cookbooks when she moved out. She even took the few cookbooks I owned before we got married, like the illustrated Help, My Apartment Has a Kitchen! book for beginners. I can't really complain, though. I never showed any interest in cooking when we lived together, so she probably didn't think I'd want them. At the time when she packed all the cookbooks up, I didn't argue with her. And to be fair, she left a whole lot more stuff than she took. Plus, it's been six months since she moved out and I'm just now discovering that I'm missing those books? I believe the statute of limitations for complaining about this has passed.

On a similar note, I didn't notice until this weekend that there are no salt and pepper shakers in the house. There's a large store of both salt and pepper hiding among the spices, but no shakers. How pathetic is it to have not noticed that for six months?

There was a time, before I got married, when I used to cook. Not a lot, and not often, but there have been times when I'd pick out a recipe, buy all the ingrediants at the store, come home and prepare a dinner. Despite the sense of accomplishment from doing something like that, it never really seemed worth all the work. You could get something just as good at a restaurant, and really, after buying all the ingredients, it's just as expensive as eating out.

So, if I don't cook, what have I been eating the past six months? Good question. Somehow I've survived, and even managed to lose some weight, then gain some weight, then lose it back again. I eat out a lot, have lots of leftovers from eating out, eat lots of sandwiches and frozen foods. (I've averaged at least one frozen pizza a week since the time I was 19 years old.)

But I often eat what I'll call Liberal Bachelor Feed. This includes pita chips with hummus, crackers with cheese, or blue-corn tortillas with salsa. Maybe I'll have a pickle or yogurt on the side. That's my entire dinner. It's quick, easy, and there are no dishes to clean. I can eat it easily in front of the TV, and since there's no meat involved, the cats leave me alone.

Instead of cooking last Saturday, I went to the store with the intention of finding "something new." I found a tub of guacamole, a pre-made Greek Salad from the deli, a tub of cut-up melons, and (wait for it) sushi! I'm not a big sushi eater. I've had it maybe half a dozen times in my life. I don't eat the raw fish, but things like California rolls, which have pre-cooked imitation crab meat with avocado and cucumber wrapped in seaweed and rice are pretty good. Since I was buying from a grocery store, I figured the California rolls would be the safest option. It actually wasn't bad, and I was proud of myself for eating something new.

The next day I planned to have tortilla chips dipped in guacamole, but when I tried the pre-made guacamole, it was nasty and I couldn't eat it. Instead, I had the Greek Salad and "cooked" a frozen pizza. Yum.

I Suck, Then Suck It Up

Here's a quick summary of my performance in the Champaign Park District Labor Day weekend tennis tournament today:

1. I Suck. I Suck I Suck I Suck. I Suck I Suck I Suck. I Suck I Suck I Suck. I Suck I Suck I Suck.
2. I Don't Completely Suck.
3. I Suck It Up.
4. I Hurt All Over.

The good news is my rib/back injury seems to be healed. I played a total of about four hours of singles tennis today, and the only part of my body that doesn't hurt right now is my ribs/back area.

It has been exactly two weeks since I decided to take a hiatus from tennis, load up on drugs, and let my injury heal. I played one match on Thursday evening, but other than that, I hadn't played in two weeks. So I wasn't in the greatest shape when I took the court this morning.

My first match was against a guy who I'd played many times before. I'd never beat him, but I'd won the first set against him three times. He hadn't played much this summer, and I was playing 3-5 times a week before my injury, so I thought this might be my chance to get him.

It wasn't.

The first game we played lasted about 20 minutes because we kept going to deuce. But he pulled it out, and that seemed to open the floodgates of my suckitude. I don't really understand what happened, but he rolled over me, 6-1, 6-0. We played a relatively long time, because we had lots of long points and deuce games. But in the end, the score was the most lopsided one we'd ever had, by far. It was frustrating, demoralizing, and put me in a negative stupor that made me focus on everything that's wrong with my life.

An hour later I played in the "consolation finals", since there were only four guys in our bracket. This was at noon, under an unrelenting midday sun. I came out strong to a 4-1 lead and thought, "Alright, maybe I don't suck after all." But then my opponent started to figure some things out and took the next three games. We went back and forth, but I managed to squeak out a 7-5 victory in the first set. Feeling rejuvenated after taking the first set, I won the first two games of the second set.

Then I hit a brick wall. The sun, the heat, and the match I'd played earlier had all drained my energy. The sun was brutal and there was no where I could go to get away from it. It was like a heavy leaden blanket draped all around me. I stopped running to the ball, I stopped setting up my shots properly, I couldn't do anything but take half-assed swings at the ball.

Every once in a while I would get enough of a semi-burst of energy to win a point. But I lost four straight games and couldn't see any way that I could win the match. I was down 2-4, and I didn't really care anymore. I lived only for the few seconds when we would change sides and I could get a swallow of Gatorade. I needed a respite from the murderous sun, but there was no shade on the court. I might play two good points after the change-over, but then my throat and lips would dry up and all I could think about was getting to my Gatorade bottle again.

By some miracle I managed to suck it up and win two games to tie it at 4-4 in the second set. But when he won the next game to go up 5-4, I did something I've never done before. I threw a game. To win the set, I would have had to have won three games in a row, and I knew that I didn't have it in me. I decided I would rather just go to the third set, where we only play a 10-point tiebreaker. I might have it in me to win that. So I let him win the next game, and thus the set. I don't know if throwing the game was sleazy or "gamesmanship" or what, but I was dying out there and just wanted it to end.

In the tiebreaker, we alternated the first six points, so we were tied when we switched sides 3-3. I noticed some cramping in my legs as I tried to run for shots. He won four of the next five to take a 7-4 lead, and was still leading (7-5) when we switched sides again. I was so dead on my feet at this point that even walking over to the other side of the court was torture, so I dreaded the change-overs. I wondered how long I could push myself before I would pass out from sun stroke. I tied it up at 8-8, then he had match point at 9-8. He blew it, and we had yet another change-over at 9-9. He had three match points in the game: at 9-8, 10-9, and 11-10. But everytime I fought back to tie it up. Finally, at 12-11, I had match point. I was determined not to have to go through another change-over, so I had to win the next point. I served, came into the net, and smashed an overhead away from him to win the match, 7-5, 4-6, 1-0 (13-11).

After I hit the winning point, I fell onto my back and lay on the court. It was probably an obnoxious and melodramatic act, but I couldn't help myself. I got up, shook myself off, and shook my opponent's hand. He left the court immediately, but I sat there for about ten minutes trying to get up enough energy to walk over to the shade of the pavilion next to the courts. My Gatorade bottle was empty, and I was parched.

Somehow, I made it to the pavilion, and then to the car, and then home. Every muscle in my body screamed in pain. I took some painkillers, laid on the couch, and drank liquids. The tournament director called to say he forgot to give me my medal for winning the consolation finals. (Apparently three out of the four participants in this tournament get a medal.)

Now, I hurt all over. I loaded up on drugs, but they still couldn't relieve the mind-splitting headache that came on in the evening. I suppose it feels good to have won, but I still don't know how I did it. I certainly didn't enjoy the last two sets of tennis, even if I did win.

Midday summer tournament tennis is no fun.

Tim Does Politics

I only blog about politics when I want my older brother Dan to post a comment on my blog. He's an angry anti-war liberal into social justice and evidence that the mainstream media is failing to do its job. He would never write a 1,000-word blog entry on his latest tennis accomplishments or about taking drugs with his cat.

So like a child trying to get attention from their parents by engaging in their parents' hobbies, I will try to win my big brother's love by blogging about how awesome Barack Obama is.

A week ago, on a lonely Saturday night, I was surfing the web and found that I could get an Obama/Biden car magnet if I donated $25 to the campaign. I'd already given money to Obama during the primaries, but since I drive a Prius and the general election is heating up, I thought it was my duty to announce to other drivers who I support for president. My problem was that I didn't want to put a traditional bumper sticker on my car that would be there forever, like campaign herpes. ("Dukakis/Bentson '88!")

But a car magnet would be perfect! I could put it on during the election and then take it off after the election, returning the respect and dignity to my car that it deserves. So I signed up and donated some money.

Of course, I made the mistake of giving them one of my email addresses, 'cause I thought they might actually have useful info to send me every now and then. As Bush would say, I guess I "misunderestimated" the amount of mail a major political campaign would send out. Since last Saturday I have received messages from the following people, in this order: Joe Biden, Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, Barack Obama (again), Jon Carson (National Field Director), Joe Biden (again), David Plouffe (Campaign Manager), Barack Obama (again), Joe Biden (again), Michelle Obama (again), and three messages from "Obama for America." If you're counting, that's 13 messages in a week.

I have not, however, received my car magnet yet.

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So I was watching Obama's speech the other night at the Democratic convention, and I got swept up in the excitement, along with a lot of other people. Here you have this historic candidate, with a pedigree and life experiences completely unlike any president in history of our country, after a historic primary, who represents hope and a drastic alternative to the current administration. I saw the diverse crowd and the enthusiasm in the stadium, and I thought, "How can the Republicans possibly respond to this?" What are they going to say? "Hey, we have another rich old white man running to serve the primary interests of other rich white men! It's worked the last 233 years, why not four more? Change: Let's wait a little more!" Woo-hoo!

Of course that's not what they're saying. The Republican strategy seems to be, "He's got no experience! He's just an empty shirt! Hope with no plan!" (Forget for a moment that their whole strategy is discrediting Obama instead of lifting up McCain.) We already heard a lot of these arguments during the primary, which I think is bogus. Look over the course of his life and tell me he's all flash and no substance. If any president over the past 50 years had no substance when he was elected, it was George W. Bush. He had a resume, but it was a list of failures. Obama has excelled at everything he's done. And look at his varied life experiences. It would be impossible to have done all he's done and not have learned a thing or two.

I had all of these thoughts before McCain announced his running mate. When I found out that he's selected a relatively obscure arch-conservative woman, at first I thought it was a master stroke. How can the Republicans respond to Obama's historic run? They'll use a woman as a running mate! But then I found out more about Palin, I realized this was another example of Republicans not "getting" affirmative action. No wonder they're so bad at it: They see it as selecting any minority, regardless of credentials. "Hey, you want a woman? We got a woman!!"

If you want to know more about Palin, here's an amusing video someone sent me: