Half-Baked and McGolden

One of the readings we're set to discuss today is a New York Times article by Ralph Blumenthal on how the University of Texas at Austin has gotten rid of all the books in its undergraduate library to make room for a 24-hour "digital learning lab," i.e., a bunch of computers.

Okay, don't panic. I did, and it doesn't help matters. Take a few deep breaths, and listen. It's not what you think.

Further along in the article we learn that they haven't tossed the books, just moved them to other locations around campus. And UT still has the larger Perry-Castañeda graduate library, no longer the purview only of grad students.

UT's situation reminded me of a distinction I made between the University of Maryland's two libraries when I studied there in the early 1990s. Hornbake, the undergraduate library, had fewer volumes, less specialized information, and always seemed to have a lot of distracted undergrads milling about. I recall that it was generally noiser and had fewer of the specialized resources I needed for my classes in secondary education.

McKeldin, the graduate library, had a larger, more sophisticated collection, attracted more focused students, and was, in my estimation, vastly superior to the other library.

I remember parodying the distinction at the time by thinking of the two libraries as "Half-Baked and McGolden."

So what UT has done, essentially, is keep its McKeldin intact but redistribute its Hornbake collection to other locations around campus. Presumably this includes moving some titles to the graduate library and also to smaller departmental collections.

Okay, so now that we've gotten the scoop and calmed down a bit... what of it? Is it a good idea not to have an undergraduate library stocked with volumes? What signal does it send to undergrads that their central repository of books has been replaced by a bank of computers?

One answer: It tells them that books are not as central to an undergraduate education as computers. Maybe it also tells them that research in books is only for relentless pupils willing to track down a volume in some obscure campus location. Or that the random discovery of titles on the shelves is irrelevant to their learning experience.

But is that really all there is to it?

Of course not. It would be narrow-minded to believe that as human knowledge expands the methods for storing and accessing that knowledge should remain static. Granted, being published still indicates that the information in question has been through some kind of vetting process, an examination (and presumably validation) by educated peers. But the last 20 years have seen the publishing industry begin a remarkable transformation. Books, periodicals and reference works are now routinely published on CD-ROM or online. When I began working in online publishing in the mid-1990s it was known as "new media." Now the "new" is a misnomer.

Undergraduates at UT may not discover a title of interest while wandering among bookshelves, but they are just as likely to discover that title online, then electronically reserve it at the graduate library or a departmental collection. And academic periodicals—the mainstay of most college libraries—are now accessible online in subscription databases, freeing up voluminous space previously occupied by hefty bound volumes. This is a change that makes a lot of sense. After all, libraries are meant to house ideas, not just paper.

Several times a week I receive a request from a student for one or two books on a given subject, not because the child needs information on that topic, but because his or her teacher has required that they list at least one book among their sources. It's backlash against the use of Google—random online searching with little concern for the integrity of Web sources. I have been frustrated a few times when I suggest using an article from an online periodical, only to have the patron refuse the information because "it's not from a book."

Instead of reinforcing the polarized books-versus-online debate, teachers and librarians need to begin to respond to the changing landscape of information storage. And if that means making one library primarily electronic while the other remains more traditionally paper-based, maybe that's not such a bad idea.

Bear With Me for a Brief Rant. Regularly Scheduled Programming Will Return Shortly.

So far LATI has been a little convoluted in its methods. I understand that a big part of the training is becoming comfortable navigating various electronic media, so in that respect it may be intentional that we have been asked to jump through a few hoops to get to things.

But so far the specific class assignments and their deadlines are not clear to me. Or, if clear, they are often obscured by too many side trips of "discovery." Mainly I am concerned with completing the requirements of the class within a reasonable allotment of time. That requires prioritizing, which depends on knowing what's mandatory and what's incidental. And as I noted in my last post, more is not always better—that holds true for clomping around online to find assignments, as it does for other activities.

I'm not talking about eschewing the spirit of discovery that the program espouses. I'm just saying that the actual syllabus for this instructional unit should not be a seemingly random part of that discovery. Another way to put it: I wish there was one simple list of tasks that we are supposed to do, rather than a this-week and next-week lists on the PDFs, constant references back to the 23 Things site (which has a different schedule for completing the tasks), and suggestions that we print out an e-mail and use it as a checklist. While sorting through these materials this week I've been tempted to ask: Will The Real Syllabus Please Stand Up?

Eggplant 2.0

Well, it's mid-February, time to finally get some of those New Year's resolutions underway. So for dinner my partner and I assembled a batch of Weight Watchers^® eggplant parmesan. The good news about this recipe is that using less oil to cook eggplant means less fat. The bad news is... er ... have you ever tasted undercooked eggplant?

Back into the oven with the casserole for 45 additional minutes, and voilá—a new and improved (and palatable) dinner.

So what do eggplants have in common with my library associate training (apart from their uncanny resemblance to Richard Nixon, that is)?

Sometimes the basics are not enough. You need to jazz things up a bit. Cook the eggplant a little longer, so it reaches a value-added state. Here are a few more examples:

But does the same hold true for the Web? Or has our love affair with technology all gotten to be a bit too much? It's one thing to move libraries into the 21st century for quicker and more equitable knowledge retrieval, but is online always better?

I'm still pondering questions like that one. For instance, if your library has a Facebook page, is that a newly-essential conduit of information to the public, or is it window-dressing—or worse—pandering? What goals does it aim to achieve, and how do we measure progress toward those goals?

These, and other philosophical questions will dog me through the spring, I'm sure. As will another long-burning question: Barney—dinosaur? Or eggplant?