I had a title for today's dribble yesterday afternoon.
It isn't an homage to the Beatles. But I am now listening to them.
I met a man Thursday who is 64. Good looking, older dude. Doesn't know his way around a computer. I helped him. Unfortunately, it was a very busy time at the libary and he was rather demanding of my time.
I'm 64 and I don't know anything about a computer or phones.
No worries, I'll help you figure some things out so you can do for yourself.
But he didn't want to do for himself. He wanted it done for him.
Fucking boomers wanting handouts. So lazy.
He called yesterday. Wanting a phone number. I looked it up for him on our magical box of interwebs.
Then I gave him two numbers: the one he requested and 411.
Why can't I just call you to get the phone numbers I need? You have the internet, I don't.
Well, because there is number that works 24 hours a day to provide just that service. Also, we're only here 21 hours a week and half the time our computers are down.
Well, I don't see why I can't just call you for this stuff.
You did and I provided it. And I gave you information that will help you when we're not here.
You know, I hope that when you're 64 you meet someone young who treats you like this.
I do too, sir. When I am sixty-four I want young people to give me information to make my life easier.
He reminded me of my grandmother. She is whip smart and manipulative as fuck. I'm a helpless old lady, blah, blah, fucking blah.
Meanwhile, my mother-in-law decides to take up programming in her fucking FIFTIES and retired from doing just that in December. At 69.
I will be sixty four in twenty years. If the world has passed me by at that age, stick my ass on a kayak and drop me in the middle of the Pacific then tell me to find my own way home
And yes, I am aware that libraries are places people come to when they have no place else to go. And I know many of our patrons only ever see our faces. That guts me and I assure you, I help and dote as much as anyone.
Not one of those patrons plays the victim. Ever.
You do that shit, you're fishing. Fuck that. That's an insult to sixtysomethings, seventysomethings, even eightysomethings who actually get off their asses and refuse to let the number of candles they've blown out dictate the terms of their lives.
Titty motherfucking sprinkles!