Last night I had a dream about Yale and its libraries. It wasn't flattering. I had been hired by some newspaper, presumably the Times or something because who else hires generalist science correspondents. I was hanging out the in the main library (jump cutted with some staff meetings with my editor in which I tried to figure out what the heck I was doing). I was trying to get my hands on a couple of things, a tome of generalist writing on science stuff and also a volume called Cuttlegraphy, which I assume was mentally modelled on one of those theory books that everybody read when I was in college like Hal Fosters Anti-Aesthetic.
The problem was the library kind of sucked. When I went to the place where the catalog terminals were there weren't enough of them and even the little pieces of paper to write call numbers on were too small to be useful. So I decided I'd just go back and look things up on my laptop (obviously the reason I didn't start there is that I am old). Then I needed to drop a friend off at the lake but when I went in the bathroom all the toilets were messed up and had big floaties in them.
Eventually I left. Then somehow it turned out there was a whole nuther library in yet another town, so I went there but eventually I couldn't find the library but got shunted into a bookstore, where of course the books I was looking for were available for purchase. But by then I was pissed.
This is all very ironic because, of course, I have rather fond memories of Yale's libraries. I spent a lot of good time in them, did a lot of interesting work, flirted with a lot of cute girls.
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