Eagle Rock Branch, Los Angeles, California

Um, have you guys ever heard of Eagle Rock before? I hadn't. The minute I exited the highway I knew I was in Cool Towne, USA. I drove down Colorado Boulevard and was immediately charmed by the 50s neon architecture, trendy eateries, and pretty homes that dotted the hills all around. The longer I was there, the more obvious it became that this was one of those "up and coming" neighborhoods where young families with fortunes flocked to play house, break bread, and soak up all that California sun very near to the heart of downtown LA. It is certainly no Beverly Hills (what is) and there are parts of LA that are so trendy they cycle through cool and uncool periods with the tides of Venice Beach--Eagle Rock is different in that it retains that indescribable charm factor. For me, it was all the bee bop a lula, for others I am sure it is something else.

The Eagle Rock Branch Library predates the neighborhood's 2 Kool 4 Skool era. If I had to guess DOB, I'd say somewhere in the 50s or 60s, though it could be older. In comparison to Duarte, I'd say they were a similar age though Eagle Rock appears to have had more updates and better upkeep over the years. It is also a very small library with all the usual offerings (books, DVDs, computers, work desks) though the spaces for people like me were relegated to some simple round tables with no electrical outlets.

The staff was lively, personable, and always on the go, and somehow managed not to shout at every small thing that happened while I was there. Patrons were respectful, quiet, and tended to their own business, be it library-related or just living. Having a little more distance between San Bernardino, I have a better handle on why it bothered me so much. It isn't just about public spaces and who gets to use them and how...it's a general problem I've had since I can remember. It's pretty simple, really. And, at least to me, doesn't seem all that much to ask. Being left the fuck alone.

This doesn't mean that I want to hide in a cave at the edge of the woods and make stick figures of passing campers and maybe scare them a little hooting and hollering in the night (though that sounds FabUlous), it means leave me the fuck alone. If I don't know you and you don't need anything from me (a simple question about weather or finding a place nearby with no added agenda--totally fine), let's nod pleasantries at most. If it is natural to engage, we'll engage. What I cannot handle is people who think they can encroach on anyone's space at any time for any reason. And for the love of God, if you touch someone without permission?

No.

This is an agency issue, and something a lot of little girls in particular have problems with, being foisted bodily into situations where they have no choice in the matter and must let smelly, weird, gross adults hug and maul them, complete with bad breath, ugly intentions, and sometimes while stupid drunk. If I sound too familiar with this scenario, shocker: I am. And worse. When you finally get a sense of yourself and realize that you decide who can and cannot invade your space, the level of hot rage you carry at previous infractions can be staggering. So, if you aren't already hip to the jive, let me be clear: Don't "make" kids hug and kiss people. It's not cool.

This also extends to things like door-to-door religion. Salesmen, who cares. Tell them to go away and they go away. I remember once in college the doorbell rang, I answered it, and there were two earnest faces staring at me. We didn't get a lot of solicitors, so I had no idea what they could possibly want. We lived in a cheap apartment building for students...and this was well before credit card companies gave anyone free credit for infinity, realizing they could live off the fat of interest for a person's lifetime. We couldn't buy McDonald's, let alone vacuum cleaners. These visitors were Baptists, however, and wanted to bring me the word of Christ. I was raised Quaker, and more importantly in a family where independent thought was encouraged...as long as you did it at church (or in the car outside of church if you were me, bull headed, and refused to go to Sunday School where all those bitches were pretending to be Christian).

This is the same apartment building where we had a running tally of baby criminals moving in and out of the apartment below us. You had to watch your laundry or people would steal it. It wasn't the worst, but c'mon. It wasn't the best, either. Lots of people who needed actual saving, but they ring my doorbell. I told the Baptists I wasn't interested and proceeded to close the door. They stopped me and said, "But do you think you are going to Heaven?" To which I said, "Yep." And they said in a hectoring, ohreeeaally tone, "Really? How do you know?" And I said BYE and slammed the door in their faces, blood pounding in my head. I'm not big on spiritual violation, either.

One of the first drafts of the San Bernardino entry started "Fuck you, San Bernardino library" or similar, and that's how I felt. I'd already been fucked with outside, came in for some salvation (ha), and found nothing but cold exclusion and dozens of staring eyes--and when it is one against many, those gazes become predatory. The power of the group outweighs the will of the one.

Eagle Rock was just like any other library I've visited--the patrons were a mix of citizenry all there for different purposes, some to do with the library, some only biding time. The nice thing about Eagle Rock was that we all were able to do our own thing in the same shared space and no one felt compelled to impose themselves on anyone else. Indeed 2 Kool 4 Skool.

Norman F. Feldheym Central Library, San Bernardino, California

I have started and restarted this entry and I'm just about to give up. It is perhaps unfair of me to blog it at all, but the point of these visits includes assessing my ability to actually use these libraries. The fact that I could not bear to stay should say volumes without me piling on, but I'm going to, anyway.

I chose the Norman F. Feldheym Central Library in San Bernardino, California based on the Google reviews and the photos featured alongside the main entry. As I've mentioned here before, I dig architecture of doom, and this building certainly seemed to qualify. Pulling up to the library parking lot, what I saw did not disappoint.

I am not sure what you would call the exterior style: Bauhaus? Postmodern Gothic? Scary Blocks of Unbridled Rage? I dug it from first sight and wanted to get a closer view. I hoped the interior was just as gloomy and austere.

The entire site was surrounded by beautiful foliage, so I circled around to the front of the building to get as many good shots as I could. I love the idea of this hunched monster, belly to the ground, peering at the citizenry through the leaves and underbrush. It was a giant, toothy cerebus pup left at the side of the road, hungry and growing bolder.

As I was taking pictures, I was peripherally aware of a woman raising her voice near me. She had a dog tied to her cart which had been barking since I'd arrived. She let it loose and it ran off to play in the grass, much to her consternation. I thought she was yelling at the dog, and even when I heard her say "Woman tries to tell me, I know what I am doing with my dog, don't you try to tell me, you're about to learn something today . . ." I thought she was talking to herself. Turns out, she wasn't.

Maybe everyone does this, but speaking soley for myself, I have been known to play out scenarios in my head to prepare myself for what I imagine is the worst possible way things might go. It happens when I am in conflict with anyone (I've imagined our fight) and when I am facing something stressful, like chairing a meeting (I've imagined hurling all over the desk in front of the entire company). I thought the woman was doing something akin to that, just out loud for all to hear. Alas, no. She decided that I was judging her (something I fear from others, as well, so I get it) especially in terms of her dog, and was lecturing me on what a good dog owner she was.

I went inside the building to get away from her (the dog, by the way, was matted but looked happy and fed otherwise. I've see an insane man beat a dog on the N train and no one did anything about it. The fuck do I care about San Bernardino dog? Exactly zero). I know she was projecting her own fears on me (and I wouldn't be surprized if someone had harassed her about the dog so she just yells at anyone who comes near them) but it set the tenor for the rest of the "visit."

Norman F. Feldeym looks like a nice man. There is a bust of him in the dark main hallway. There is also a skylight of sorts that somehow permits very little light into the building itself, as you can see.

The library part of the building was very small. When I walked in, I could see they were doing some sort of renovation, with plastic taped up to cover almost the entire wall behind circulation. Every computer station, work station, work table, and chair was occupied. No one appeared to be there for any other reason than to have a place to be for the day. Very few people had books or papers, and there were a lot of eyes on me as I made my rounds through the building, quickly realizing I was going to have to leave. Immediately.

They weren't staring at me because I was such a biscuit . . . I was an interloper and definitely did not belong. Every gaze I met with library staff reflected back flat and unsmiling. And the interior itself? I only managed to take two quick snaps as I exited and even they cast too kind a light on the place. As I mentioned on Facebook, the very first thing I thought when exiting the parking lot was "Miami Vice Autopsy Theater." And that was the era this place last saw an update, as far as I could tell.

All of this could be forgiven if the staff appeared to care, but they seemed like a group of people disconnected from the present and just waiting until it was time to lock up and head home. I do not pretend to know their actual thoughts, but there are probably sunnier, better outfitted, and more wholly supported prison libraries. The faces of the staff matched the overall mood of the place, turning it from dreary and uncomfortable to downright inhospitable.

It wasn't a library. It has books and periodicals and people can check them out, but that's about it. They should just deliver books to patrons or have a drive through window. The only thing to be gained from going in the building is to fall deeper into depression, drop the pretenses, and start hitting the needle.

Harsh? Don't care. This was the nice version. This is as good as it gets.