If You Give a Sonya an E-zine Article.

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I always read Ex Libris (it’s written by my favorite non-blood-relation librarian), and Marylaine’s “cool quote” was from WorldChanging.com.

yoink!

“According to one map-making friend, creating walkshed maps… would be a relatively simple Google Maps “Mash Up.” Anyone know of such a tool? Anyone volunteer to do this project? I’d love to have a detailed map stowed in the “glove box” of our Burley of all 248 businesses in my home zone. Ideally, I would want a walking map or PDA application that shows me the whereabouts of public restrooms, water fountains, bike racks, curb cuts, bus stops, and benches.” Worldchanging

So then I went to WorldChanging, because I already have a tote bag from them (thanks ALA conference!) and am on their mailing list.

This made me think about my idea to catalog all the climbing trees in Champaign. I thought I could use GPS data, digital photographs, and Google Maps to put it together.

So from WorldChanging I went to Bycycle, and was only slightly frustrated to find out that they only have Philly, Portland, and Milwaukee.

So five minutes later, whilst reading Lifehacker, I spied Bikely – a bike route map site. I figured it would be like Google Maps, where you’d need GPS data to show routes.

NOPE! You use Google Maps, but you just click in the intersections. I signed up immediately, and made a map of my commute to class. It shows the distance, and I tagged it with commute, urban, basic, and low-traffic. It’s my new fascination. I encourage other bikers in Champaign (who happen to read my blog, ahem, Sasha, ahem, Laurie) to log route. I want to see how you get places!

BookMooch is the new Netflix

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I’ve been wondering for a while how a Netflix-style entertainment distribution system could be used for books. There’s Bookcrossing, but that only works if you happen upon the tome. The whole Netflix thing works so well because the items are lightweight.

I’ve been mulling this over, because I grew up as a librarian’s daughter, and therefore discouraged from purchasing books. Compounding this is Librarything, where I can peer into the collections of my friends. How can this work together?

(I realize that the obvious answer is the public library system. Not only do they have an online database of materials, but they’re conveniently located EVERYWHERE. I’m thinking about something more long term, where I could keep the book for 6 months if I wanted, without having to renew.)

I read today on BoingBoing about a site called BookMooch. It’s a “community for exchanging used books” and I’m in love. I would happily send away copies of books I’ve bought and am only keeping because no one has asked to borrow them. I’d pay shipping happily, since I won’t rack up fines.

(And think about it – us librarians could use some help weeding. I just helped 3 librarians move, and there were more book boxes than anything else.)

I’m going to go check it out. I’ll be under sundaykofax.

Level-two master.

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I pulled out my packet of instructions for the second level of the Master Knitter program. I have no intention of getting it done before I leave grad school, but I thought working on some swatches now would make the task as a whole a little less daunting.

Here are the requirements:
22 swatches
1 traditional Argyle sock
1 vest
15 questions
4 book reviews
1 report on the worldwide history of knitting

I feel confident that I can wrestle my way throught the swatches. They’re cable, color pattern, buttonhole, and the like. I had more problems with the questions (in level 1). Here’s a sample: “When should a stitch be slipped knit wise? Purl wise?”

The Argyle sock is going to be tough, and the stupid questions are what killed me in level one. At least now I’m in school, and my question-answering skills are much better.

Part of me feels that getting this started increases the chance of me finishing it within the next year. The other part of me wants to jump right in to knitting my dream project. I’ve blogged about it before. It’s the most amazing hoodie I’ve ever seen.

Rogue

Interface. That’s what HE said.

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My current wallet (circa 1995, traded from my sister for a piece of paper or some shit, sans belt-loop-chain) is dying. It’s kind of thick, and because I hatehatehate purses, I need a new wallet.

I covet E’s coinpurse wallet, and I kind of coveted the wallets I saw in the craft tent at Pitchfork, but I don’t want a coinpurse, and Stephanie assured me I could make the wallets I saw in the craft tent.

I decided to take Steph’s optimism home with me, and so during this glorious week of no work (all play), I made myself a wallet. Well, a wallet prototype. But it works.

So, I got out my graph paper, and figured out the height of paper money, the width of two ID cards, and went to work. I initially chose a brown corduroy, thinking it would be stiffer and hold up better (kind of like leather). I was wrong. I refer to it as Eve 6.

So I go to the crafty store, and pick up some interfacing and pinking shears (they are pink). This time, I use cotton fabric that my mom gave me from her gigantic stash of quilting stuff.

wallet_in_progress.jpg

This time, I also remember to do the measurements right. Helpful.

So here’s the outcome: I’d like the cash holster to be a bit deeper, but other than that, it’s exactly what I wanted.

wallet.jpg

T3 writes about me. No. Wait. I wrote it.

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So, as much as I like Vice magazine, in all it’s snarky glory, I sometimes feel bad making fun of the people in the don’ts section of DOs and DONT’s.

Last night I met Lena, who said the exact same thing, and then today told me about Hel Looks. It’s “selected street fashion from Helsinki” which mashes nicely with last night’s discussion of the band Architecture in Helsinki.

Full circle, my friends.
Ted emailed me a few days ago,
asking some questions about myself, him,
and blogging. My favorite is the “who would you have wanted Ted to date back in college”. Here are all my answers. (Nothing absolutely shocking, just fun.)

Bacheloretting and whatnot

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I went up to Chicago this past weekend for my first out-and-about bachelorette party. (My first experience ever was a sex-toy party at the bride-to-be’s house.) I had to work at the Chemistry Library in the afternoon on Saturday, and was all anxious about how I was going to get to the party before it got crazy without me.

Luckily, Librarian Kim was heading up to her south-suburb home to visit her momz, who just had foot surgery. I got to meet her mom, who is REALLY NICE AND SUPER CUTE. It made me really happy.

So then I took the Metra up into the city. It reminded me of my commute to Waukegan, and I kind of felt nauseous, but I pulled out The Diamond Age (or: A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer) and commenced to reading.

I was pleased to find out that the party had not yet left the apartment (somehow, an apartment in the Gold Coast was rented, which was amazing) so I cabbed on up Lake Shore.

Let me just say that my expectations for a bachelorette party include some sort of phallic headdress, jello shots, and a lot of drunken-head-tiled-back “WOOOOOO!” Kate’s team of bachelorettes had managed to combine two of these things. Penis mold jello shots.

So the headdress was actually awesome feathers, which we all go to wear if we wanted. We sat around, toasting Kate, for enough time for me to get buzzed, then headed out.

Coming in from out of town, I did not have a hand in planning. That’s how I didn’t know that we had a contact at {swank place} and this person was going to try to get us in to {a popular and well-recieved hip-hop artist’s} VIP afterparty. After amassing at the place, we went to a waiting room where a few other folks were waiting to maybe get in. We had already missed the easy opportunity of sneaking up the back staircase, and our contact was trying her darnedest to get us in. Total in the room were 19 people. Our contact came in, and told us we’d have to come en-mass to a door, and she’d have to wrestle the stamper away from the doorman. (She was really, really trying here.) We all piled into the elevator, and …

… CA-CHUNK. Got stuck. We were stuck in the elevator. There was a count of heads, and some simple math, and we realized that we had overloaded the weight capacity. The walls of the elevator were mirrored, so it looked like a crowd of people that went on forever. I’m not claustrophobic, but I do enjoy oxygen. Those who were more claustrophobic-minded did an admirable job of not freaking the EFF out. After somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes, someone opened the door from the outside, and we stepped up into the lobby. (Totally busted.) We vacated as soon as possible, as to not further endanger our friend’s job.

So what do you do when you can’t go to the VIP afterparty you had planned? You go to Liar’s Club. Now, we were 11 people, so we split into three groups for cab purposes. My group couldn’t get a cab to save our lives. We started walking up to the next intersection. We walked across the Chicago river, which had sidewalk construction. There were were, five young beautiful dressed-up gals (I was the only one not in heels, natch.) trying to cross the barricade to get to the sidewalk on the other side. There was sparse traffic, because it was 11:30.

We’re waiting for a car to pass when it slows and the window rolls down. “You ladies need a ride?”

Yeah right. You may be a well-dressed guy in a Beemer, but I’ve seen American Psycho.

Except there were 5 of us, there were no cabs, and the guy explained that his guests had his parking spot, and he couldn’t park legally on Wacker until midnight, so he was just driving around anyway. (God, Mom, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.)

So we all hop in. Turns out, he’s a day trader who’s hosting some clients at his place. He was out golfing in the suburbs, and couldn’t park on his street until after 12. I think I would have had more in common with him if he were a serial killer, but whatever. Kate’s sister talked him up about golfing, and we got to Liar’s Club in one piece. We offered to buy him a drink, (plus we wanted to prove our story to the other 2/3rds of our crew).

He asked which one was the bride, and we pointed out Kate. He congratulated her, and she asked him questions based on the thought that he was a cabbie. Whoops. Anyway, he was nice, kept to himself, didn’t ask for anyone’s number, didn’t dance-all-up on any of us, and then we thought he had left, since he wasn’t with us on the dance floor.

Turns out, he had gone up to the bar. He came back and said (well, shouted), “They don’t have any trays here, so you’ll have to come up to the bar.”

He had bought us ALL shots of a VERY smooth tequila. Wow. So we all did shots, WOOOOOed, thanked our knight-in-shining-auto, and he left.

Dance, dance, dance. Drink, drink, drink. We left Liar’s Club for Carroll’s, and found ourselves in the midst of a half old-guy, half hipster full house. There were a couple of people who looked ready to go home (too tired, too drunk, or both) so we took a cab back to the apartment. (I am a champion of cheesing out and going to sleep.) I got to sleep with Jen in a pullout bed.

Many hours later, it seemed like, the rest of the partiers came home. Kate and co. closed down Carrolls, which I think was her goal.

So that was my Saturday night adventure. I had planned to visit several different friends on Sunday, so I woke up at a fairly normal hour. Kate woke up too, so we had a nice talk at the kitchen table while Laura (her sister) had a Happy Birthday phone call with their other sister Martha. Somehow, the subject of early boyfriends came up, and I mentioned that I had an early-college ex from Cedar Rapids. I swear I had talked about this with Kate before, but apparently I hadn’t, because the guy WAS HER NEIGHBOR.

So then all of a sudden, Kate, Laura, and Martha (on the phone from DUBLIN) are all going, “EEEwww! Danny Redacted!?”

Yeah. Right. Well, that’s why it was early in my dating life. I didn’t get a chance to tell them about how when we broke up he drew a portrait of me, which he gave to my parents. They keep it behind the piano. We rediscover it every once in a while when a hamster gets loose or something.

Anyway, I was glad to have some quality time with Kate before I left. I had three other friends to see, and I haven’t seen any of them since I moved last August.

I went to brunch with my good friend Abbie. She suggested Heartland Cafe, which is the best restaurant in the city. I had the apple-raisin-mozzarella omelet and the cornbread. I was in heaven. We sat and talked, caught up, and Abbie told me some fabulous news about her getting to shortlist her goal of moving to London. I’m so freaking jealous happy for her.

We then surprised our friend Kandy, who lives in Rogers Park (where Heartland is). We hung out with her at her place (which I covet) and caught up more. It was fantastic.

I had one more person on my list to see, so Abbie drove me back down to Roscoe Village (in her sister’s truck – so awesome) and I met up with my Abbott friend Angela. She fed me a beer and guacamole (which reminds me why we’re so compatible) and caught up too. She had a HILARIOUS date story, which I keep thinking about.

My plan was to take the 8 pm Amtrak out of Union Station, and I left Angela’s around 5:30. I took the Damen bus down to Quimby’s, because I was aching for a Bag-o-Mags, and some new zines. They closed at 6, so I still had two hours to kill before the train left. Instead of going down really, really, painfully early, I decided to call my other Abbotteer, Steve. He was actually my boss, which is kind of hilarious, because I think we make much better friends than co-workers. Well, actually, he’s in the particular ring of hell I was in while I worked at Abbott (the one where you do about 20 hours worth of work during your 40-hour week, all while commuting from the city). I finally got to see his place, which I’d been hearing about when he was in the process of buying it. It’s super cool, which totally fits Steve. It’s not so much metrosexual as it is just an amazing space. Oh, except for the fabric samples on the couch.

Steve, I stand by my decision that the plush swatch looks too much like car upholstery – especially in grey.

Anyway, we went to Earwax for smoothies (I introduced him to my favorite – the chocolate/peanut butter one) and he drove me down to the station. I was worried about being late, but as it turns out, the train was delayed.

So I went to sit down and wait by the boarding area, and I saw a guy who’s in my program. We had a class together last semester, but I didn’t really get to know him that well. I think it was a product of him not being a chatterbox, and therefore not getting a word in edgewise.

So we sat together on the train, and talked the whole way home. It was really really fun, and I’m glad I figured out how cool he is (he studied Italian! he works with rare books! he’s liberal!) and I hope he can come to LNB next week.

So, all in all, my weekend was AMAZING. I celebrated Kate’s upcoming wedding without it being too … body shot-esque, saw way more friends than I thought I would, didn’t forget to call anybody, and was home in time to go to Bentley’s for a really well-made bloody mary. Woo. I only wonder what next weekend will hold.

Oh wait. Right! Charles and Silva are coming! YAAAAAY.

You may be surprised with the detail I have outlined my weekend. Growing up, when my parents asked me how my day was, they meant it. At least, I think they meant it. Oh well.

Do we?

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Dewey decimals

I just had my last cataloging class, and have completed about 1/2 of my take-home final. I think it was working on the final that made this cartoon so funny to me. Like, maniacal laughter that ends in gasps.

Today was the first day that we really got into the way cataloging is seen in the library science world. I didn’t want to take a cataloging class (sorry, Mom!) because I’m easily frustrated at systems that don’t work well. Between library catalogs not containing perfect data, and being esoteric and user-unfriendly, I find myself hating our stodgy systems that we’re clinging to. I use Amazon to find books that I know are in our catalog. That doesn’t make me want to learn about cataloging.

So now that I’ve completed the course (and looking to get an A! Hi Mom!) I can say that I like the eloquence of the system, and imperfections are due to natural human mistakes, so it’s kind of a cool system, as long as you’re well versed in it.

As a patron, I still loathe it.

I have a lot more thoughts about copy cataloging, outsourcing, Googlezon, and MARC spinning around in my head, and I can’t wait to have long conversations about it over drinks with other librarians. WoOt.

My first Critical Mass

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I went on my first Critical Mass ride this month, and I have to say, I did it up right. I was in Chicago for Pitchfork, and brought up my bike. Laurie drove, so the Princess of Pinkness (my bike) got a free ride. Laurie has ridden CM before, so I was happy to not only have the company, but also the expertise.

I was a bit nervous, because I’d never biked in Chicago before. I’m a farm girl, so 90% of my biking experience involves gravel roads that are straight and flat. I’ve been biking a lot in Champaign, and I’d like to think that I’m pretty good, but this is the Big City.

Sammich!

So, Laurie and I went down to Daly Plaza. We got convenience-store sammiches, which turned out to be DELICIOUS. I’ve decided that Laurie is my favorite adventure friend, because she always accounts for time to get food. As a wheezy hypoglycemic, I like this.

SO. There was a lot of hanging around Daly Plaza. Routes were voted on, but I missed it because I was talking to a kickball friend I hadn’t seen since last summer. I have a tendency towards socializing during democratic processes, so this wasn’t surprising.

We mounted up, and headed out – on a route that would take us south to the beach. The first portion was kind of painful, because we were going so slowly it was hard to balance with my feet on the pedals. I have some nice bruisy shins to prove that walking with a bike isn’t in my forte. (Plus I have a short-for-my-height inseam.)

(This will give you a sense of proportion. You can spot me midway back on the right side in this photo. I’m wearing a black tank top and a white and green skirt. My bike is pink and my helmet’s blue.)

Part of Critical Mass is ‘corking’ – blocking off the perpendicular route (even when the light is green for them) so the group can get through. When I first heard about this concept, I was wary. Anything that involves conflict and confrontation makes me want to hide. Because there are so many people riding, it’s the safest way. It’s like an impromptu parade.

CM riders shouted “Happy Friday!” to passersby/onlookers. If a frustrated vehicle honked, the crowd would whoop and shout. This made me smile a lot, because it’s a celebratory response to someone’s frustration. (I can understand – you get in your car to get to point B, and you’re held up an extra five minutes, and you start feeling anxious. But the point is to remind you that there are alternatives to driving everywhere.)

One observation I made was that when we were in white neighborhoods, people in their vehicles (often on cell phones) had furrowed brows and angry looks on their faces. They honked in anger, and would try to push out into the sea of bikers.

When we travelled through areas that were not white – mostly Latino and Asian – people in their vehicles were also honking, but they were smiling and waving, and shouting “Happy Friday” back to us.

You can see it as a parade, or you can see it as a roadblock, but either way it’s happening, so you kind of get to choose your perspective.

The path we took seemed to have a few problems – but I don’t know if it was the route, or if it was the bikers. We were completely stopped for about 10 minutes, and I couldn’t see far enough ahead to know what the problem was. There were police cars involved, but they left, and we continued on our way to Chinatown.

Back to corking, and general bike-rider/car-driver interactions. I witnessed one interaction where a biker got into a screaming match with an angry driver. It was overly aggressive on both their parts, but I was embarrassed for us collectively, because this douchebag biker was making us all look bad. Corking traffic isn’t a biker’s legal right, and the point is to raise awareness – not block traffic once a month to raise vehicle-driver’s blood pressure or pick fights.

Laurie and I decided to not finish the ride, because we were due at a gathering up-up-uptown and the route was taking up south. We rode about six miles with Critical Mass, but put 25 miles on our bikes that night.

Critical Mass is my preferred method of being enviropoliticactive. I like big events, where we actually DO something (even if it’s nothing more than piss off drivers and get sweaty). As a city biker, I NEED drivers to be aware of me. I want to bike everywhere I need to. I want to get rid of my car and never take the lazy way out.

The thing is, I can’t make this lifestyle choice alone. Sure, biking only takes one person, but because I’m part of traffic, it’s in my best interest to make sure people who do drive are aware of me and treat me like another set of wheels on the street. Champaign drivers aren’t used to a lot of bike traffic. There are a lot of people who bike on the sidewalk. They’re not used to me biking at their speed and maneuvering near me.

Champaign has started doing Critical Mass, and I can’t wait till the last Friday of the month to go out with them.

Abbie, the Wonder Dog: a eulogy

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Abbie, the Wonder Dog has been in my family since 1989. Last week, she was finally put down. This was one of those situations where you’re glad they’re finally at rest. Abbie was arthritic, totally deaf, partially blind, and had tumors under her skin all over her body. (Petting her felt creepy, but obligatory.)

I’ve been braced for the news that the family dog was dead since I went off to college in 1997. Some time after these pictures were taken, she lost sight in one eye, and a single tumor on one leg turned into lumps all over. I figured she wouldn’t last the next winter.

On July 4, 2004, my family became the incidental owners of a beagle (who we named John Edwards – we were feeling optimistic) and Abbie’s quality of life increased dramatically. Until then, she had the humans and the cats to amuse her. Now she had a friend of the same species.

Abbie lived WAY longer than any of us thought, and I think it was because John Edwards was around to keep her company. Finally, though, it became apparent that although she was a wonder dog, she wouldn’t live forever.

When I talked to my mom on the phone, she told me that Abbie had been put down because she had stopped eating and was walking sideways. I think we were all relieved that she was done being an old dog. I’m glad she was put down, rather than accidentally hit by Mom in her car, or Dad in a tractor.

“I think she lived so long because of John Edwards. She was too old to be much fun, but at least there was another butt to sniff,” said my mom, in a most empathetic tone.

In her youth, Abbie had a tendency to bring us “presents”. I’m sure a lot of pets do this, but when you live on a farm near the timber, you end up with really big, smelly presents on your lawn. I can’t tell you how many times I had to remove a cow placenta or deer bone from the front lawn so I could mow.

Abbie’s trademark was barking at vehicles that drove up the lane. It was like a farm-wide doorbell. We knew when someone was driving up, which is really nice when you live on a farm and aren’t used to a lot of random visitors. Plus, she was always friendly to whomever drove up. It was like, “Hey! Someone’s here! I’ll go smell them for you!”

I also remember a period of time when she was younger when she would carry kittens around in her mouth. I think this was a mothering instinct, but that’s not what you think of when you see a cat in a dog’s mouth.

Basically, she was the best farm dog a family could want (outside of actually being able to herd) and as you can tell by my sentimental words, she will be missed.