Balls to the Wall
Fear and Loathing
Finally, here we are at Winter Solstice - a turn towards the light and all the hope it offers for the Season.
It’s been in the 80’s here in Phoenix and people have put Santa hats on their cactuses to help remind us that we live in an alternate reality when it comes to winter weather here in the desert, and I love it.
I’m not much of a shopper or a planner, so Christmas is a holiday I endure on behalf of the children, who are now teenagers, who have always had an enchanting and magical Christmas experience thanks to their dad.
He puts a lot more effort into gift buying, gift wrapping, decorating, and light-hanging than I ever have. He starts buying Christmas gifts in January and it’s always too much but he sure does know how to surprise and delight the kids, and for that I am very grateful. If left to my own devices, I’d struggle miserably.
He’s the Santa, I’m the Yule log. Somehow we make it work.
I always want to speed through Christmas to get to the New Year, but this is our last Christmas with both of our kids as kids. Baby Girl turns eighteen in 2025 and then starts college a few weeks later. My baby boy will be driving near the end of the year.
The time with them has gone so quickly, and now I just want to slow everything down. Maybe even reverse it a little just for a few minutes, back to the time when they were small so I could smell their heads again.
Life is busy, life is good.
The library memoir I’m currently writing has taken a turn towards darker and more divisive topics that I have thus avoided so far on this Substack - POLITICS and COVID, ANYONE? - and honestly, I’ve been struggling with what and how to present it to this mostly peaceful and energetically positive mailing list.
Do I keep it private? Keep dancing around it? Save it for the book only?
I’m not sure. I just know that I can’t write this memoir without exploring politics and my own experiences and perceptions over the years.
Libraries are political entities and becoming a librarian was a political act. A commitment to public service, spurred on by my belief in the First Amendment and that an informed citizenry was essential for living in a well-functioning democratic republic. It was my way of living my values.
Ahh, I was so naïve…
This is how I feel about writing about politics on Substack - a funny piece.
You know, there’s a tiny bit of that ‘ick’ factor. To me at least. I don’t judge other people, it’s not my business, it’s also not my thing. I’ve never “done” it.
“It”, or politics.
THAT SAID, I HAVE THIS URGE.
I kinda just want to let it hang out and enjoy myself. Get my freak on. Did I really just say that?
I’ve come to accept that I’m going to offend or disappoint some of my readers. Maybe not today, but at some point over the next year, or whenever.
And I hate that thought. But also, not enough to not do it.
So, for 2025, to hell with fear and loathing. It’s going in the trash.
For me, 2025 is about truth and disclosure. There is big “liberation” energy afoot - new ways of thinking, new perspectives, a return to our purpose.
I, for one, am optimistic. Terribly, wonderfully, optimistic. Whatever awaits - bring it on. I am ready.
Balls to the Wall.
In addition to the memoir, and the other projects I’m pecking away at and circling around, I want to post more often to Substack, do some librarian shit like book reviews, write random essays on obscure topics, and share interesting tidbits and commentary on the social order.
Some people just ain’t gonna vibe with the direction I need to go, and that’s OK.
If you’re an open-minded, free-thinking person, a rational individual who appreciates diverse viewpoints, an avid reader of controversial things, a questioner of authority and official narrative, who perhaps has a dark sense of humor or irony, a realist who seeks truth and vibrates in a higher realm where truth matters, who wants to expand their own consciousness, and human consciousness, and who won’t become weird if I have a different, darker viewpoint - you’re my people.
I hope you’ll stick around. It might get spicy.
I often look through old pictures to help the memoir-writing process, and I came across one recently that definitely spurred a part of my story, so I’m sharing below. Still rough, but it’ll be in the book.
When I stated in my 8th grade American History class that George Washington probably died of syphilis, my bespeckled and bearded teacher, Mr. Woodruff, choked on his coffee. I was usually quiet in school, but I loved history.
And look, I wasn’t the greatest student either. Solidly average until I went off the rails and almost failed out of high school. But, I was always reading. Whatever caught my fancy at the library - I would devour.
“I also read that Lincoln suffered from the affliction, as well. And probably Hitler, too, if we’re being honest”. I don’t even remember where I read it, because this was the early 1980’s, long before STD’s became a mainstream subject and the focus of public health education.
My classmates snickered and laughed. Saying “syphilis” out loud, I might as well have said “fuck” in class. I was a little surprised at their reaction.
Luckily, Mr. Woodruff was a cool teacher and a low-key funny guy. Instead of ridicule or scorn, he looked amused.
“Well, it could definitely be a possibility as we just didn’t know much about historical afflictions of that sort. Officially, they say he died of pneumonia, but who knows? ” he offered.
I saw Mr. Woodruff a few years later while I was working my first paycheck job at Sister’s Chicken & Biscuits, a brilliant little offshoot of Wendy’s, which was founded in Columbus, not too far away from where I lived in Westerville.
I made $3.45 per hour, I could walk there after school, and I ate for free every shift. I worked with my BFF, Kathy, which made the job fun - and we didn’t mind that the fry cooks listened to Van Halen and Def Leppard. I occasionally got stoned with them out back while taking the trash to the dumpster. We served breakfast, but I usually worked the dinner and closing shifts.
My favorite position was the biscuit station/salad bar, where your only assignment was to mix up, punch out, and bake trays upon trays of delicious buttermilk biscuits from a big double-door oven, as well as take care of the salad bar and refill it as necessary from bins in the refrigerated walk-in.
You didn’t have to deal with customers or a money drawer, but you were hot, you were cold. If it was busy, you hustled. People ordered those biscuits by the dozen.
We used real butter and buttermilk. And it was a terrific salad bar.
In fact - everything we served was pretty amazing. Sausage gravy, creamed chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with ham, baked beans with bacon, creamy coleslaw, seasoned rice, chicken breast fillet sandwiches, wedge fries, and the most perfect strawberry shortcake - a thing of beauty, legendary around Ohio. A ladle of strawberries and syrup on a buttermilk biscuit, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a squirt of whipped cream.
*CHEFS KISS*
And for the record, THE FRIED CHICKEN WAS EXCEPTIONAL, ESPECIALLY THE SPICY BLEND.
I’ve always loved the spicy stuff.
The menu was brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I mean, it was a fast food joint.
Anyways, all that to say, sometimes I did work the drive through window, and one evening, Mr. Woodruff drove through. His voice sounded familiar on the speaker. When he pulled up and I saw it was him, I couldn’t help myself.
“Hey Mr. Woodruff! Do you remember me?”
He peered up at me through his glasses from his little brown Honda hatchback.
“Why of course I remember you! George Washington’s syphilis!” He grinned.
“Yes! That’s me!” I was delighted.
He paid, and I handed him his Diet Coke, chicken sandwich and wedge fries, bid him a “take care!” and he was on his way.
He didn’t remember my name, but he remembered what I’d said in class, even years later.
It was even better than being recognized as a good student. I was never a good student - I didn’t think I was capable. Not until I started college at the age of 25, at least.
But, I was a reader. And I just like knowing things. Sometimes things that most people don’t know. Sometimes things people don’t like to talk about.
You know, the spicy stuff. Stuff that makes you think, feel, burn a little.
It’s like I’ve always been searching for the secrets of the Universe, the meaning of Life, and how to find Everlasting Happiness. Like an itch I can’t scratch.
And with those questions that bugged me like a bad wool sweater, I always found relief at the Library.
—
Happy Festivus, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Thank you for being here and see you soon.
With love,
AMO
I can say with certainty that I’m here for your writing from here on out, wherever it may take you 🙏💛