His Opus 101 piano sonata gives me chills. When my undergraduate theory professor, Dr. Crotty, took us through his analysis of it - which, being quite extensive, lasted for about two weeks - he made a pretty convincing argument that the harmonic structure behind the sonata served as the foundation for the eventual breakdown of hierarchical tonality. In other words, this piano sonata was the beginning of the end for tonal music. My professor went nuts over this, screaming and jumping around the room, yelling, "Don't you see, people? Don't you see it?" If he was interrupted in his harangues by a question, he would actually begin to gnaw on his own arm in frustration until he could get back to the matter at hand.

Gosh, I miss that man.

Beethoven's music is great fun to analyze and take apart. I've written more papers on his piano sonatas than on anything else in my educational career. There's always something special hidden in the structure that provides hours of fun in discovering. Good old Dr. Crotty held the belief that these little nuances were what made the piece "right" and "logical." Arguing with him as to whether or not music could ever be "wrong" was like trying to rush headlong into a tidal wave; it was much easier just to go along with the flow.

Oh, dear Lord! My quiet little morning turned into an afternoon of pure chaos. I finished the program (hurrah!), Tech Lady installed PageMaker on the computer hooked to the only other printer in the building capable of printing on ledger paper, we gave it the old heave-ho, and found ourselves running smack dab up against the same problems as yesterday. No dice. We fought with the thing for an hour or so before finally resigning ourselves to the idea of just lumping the whole thing onto a Zip disk, driving to Kinko's, and tossing the whole ball of wax into their laps.

So I walked upstairs into mass hysteria. It's "Turn Off the TV Week," did you know that? And we were playing host to a gathering of children who were making creatures of clay, feathers, and pipe cleaners. The idea of doing art inside on a sunny afternoon turned out to be much more popular than we had predicted; a mob of children descended upon us, running and screaming. I counted forty of them at one point, crammed into the little lecture room, throwing feathers at each other and laughing maniacally.

Counting my blessings, I fled the library, drove to Kinko's, and found that whatever problems I had been having belonged solely to the library network; they vanished into thin air when I reached the sublimely quiet copy shop. Disappointment ran through me; I was going to have to return to the library, into the lap of mad Eris herself, without having had much of an escape at all. It couldn't be helped.

The children were rocketing off the walls from the mob excitement. I saw a magazine fly through the air when I walked into the room, recalling to mind the earlier words of one of our pages, who happens to have Down Syndrome.

"Don't go upstairs," she had said to me as I sat in my office. "The junior high kids are upstairs, and they might give you a hard time. The might use cuss words." I assured her that I would take care of them, but she seemed unconvinced. "Be careful," she said.

Boss-Lady told me later that this page was very imaginative, and was rather frightened of older children. Still, it seemed like good advice on a day like today. I waded through the throng surrounding the children's area, picking up books and games from the floor. Some of my little ones from storytime were present; I waved hello, and they grinned before dashing off. There was no point in trying to control the chaos, because it was self-feeding. Every time a child would begin to settle himself, a friend would dash up and slug him, and they'd both be off and running. Utter madness.

And then it was five-thirty, and we gladly abandoned our posts to the second shift. Lucky them, the crowd seemed to be thinning. Unlucky them, the networked public computers seemed to be dying as we left. Not my problem. Aren't I the callous one?

"Buy him some boxer-briefs!" someone suggested. Boxer-briefs? I had never heard of such things. Some of the women tried to describe them, and while I now have a good mental picture of them, I don't believe I've ever run across them. I am thus greatly intrigued.

Of course, it's a fairly safe bet that he'd turn up his nose at the idea of a change, but I think I may give it a shot anyway. If I have to choke down all those herbs every morning, he can give up his "tighty-whities" for the cause. Am I right?