Wow, you can get just about anything at the library these days. Not just the usual stuff like books and DVDs, but actual conversations with fascinating and exotic people. So-called “Living Libraries” give patrons the opportunity to reserve thirty-minute blocks of time with individuals of varying backgrounds; the idea being that face-to-face dialog is sometimes the best way to understand a perspective different than your own. If this concept ever comes to my local library, I’m going to sign up as a volunteer. I’m all kinds of interesting. But I’m going to give everyone this list of bullet points to prevent every conversation from covering the same boring territory:

• No, I’m not in pain.
• No, I was not in an accident.
• No, I won’t give you free legal advice.

Not long ago, I wrote about the stares I sometimes receive and my reactions to them. Montana-based artist Kevin Connolly, who was born without legs, took a more original tack and turned his camera on the gawkers ogling him in all corners of the globe. The photos capture people expressing varying degrees of curiosity as they check out Connolly. They really aren’t much different from the people staring at me. The human brain seems to be hardwired to respond to the novel and that’s why I have to wonder, if my own circumstances were different, whether I could be one of the people in these photos.

Here’s an excerpt from an official guide for volunteers at the Beijing Olympics regarding appropriate disability etiquette:

Some physically disabled are isolated, unsocial, and introspective. They can be stubborn and controlling . . . defensive and have a strong sense of inferiority.
And believe me, that’s on a good day.
It goes on:
They show no differences in sensation, reaction, memorisation and thinking mechanism from other people, but they might have unusual personalities because of disfigurement and disability.

Wow, it’s like the people who wrote this book are talking about me.
I hope they didn’t leave out any vital information, like our hatred of sunlight and how we bring bad luck to anyone unfortunate enough to accidentally touch us.

I went into this movie trying not to expect much. After the trauma the Star Wars prequels inflicted on me, I’ve become deeply suspicious of George Lucas’ efforts to revive the pop culture touchstones of my childhood. But soon comes a scene of Indy dodging Soviet bullets in a musty Army warehouse and I’m beginning to think that not every eagerly anticipated thing in life has to end in disappointment. For the first hour, Spielberg executes one bravura moment of popcorn cinema after another.

The second half…not so much. The story gets bogged down in its efforts to lead the audience through a breadcrumb trail. The CGI is glaringly obvious in parts and the science fiction elements are kludgy. This fourth chapter of the Indy franchise doesn’t sustain the same exhilarating pace of the original, but then again, I’m not eight years old anymore. Indy’s prime may be past, but the film didn’t rob him of his essential coolness. And now, Mr. Lucas, it’s time to leave well enough alone.