It's September 2nd.
Sore feet and aching backs dragging themselves into the store. College kids (oh i'm so close, so close, if only this were tomorrow i could be walking through this door alone.) with parents at their shoulder (oh we're so close, i can't believe it, should i be feeling better than this? worse? what has all this been for?) trailed by bored little brothers and sisters (they said we're getting ice cream next. if we spend more than two minutes in here, i'm going to scream.) dragged into town to help get the oscillating fan out of the rental and into the dorm. Eager, resigned, dogged.
Welcome to Boston, everyone.
When the freshness of your corporate-owned campus bookstore and its in-house satellites of Starbooks cafe and SuperSnips salon begins to get a bit stale, remember that we are here, mid-semester or winter-break, a T ride away. And know that most of us were out there doing the apartment shuffle just like you. Because that is the price you pay for staying past graduation. You dance the double-parkin' dosey doe with the returning students until the day when you intentionally break your lease and take a two-thousand dollar loss just to jump to the rare and glorious lease that starts on the first of February.
Now that I'm off the September lease leash, I can love this time of year without reservation. It's my twelfth here at Booksmith, which means that it's been twelve years since my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Scene Design for Theatre meant anything to anyone but me. Doesn't matter. I just really like all the new September faces. I hope you all become regulars, and I hope you remember that we are the premier supplier of fine art supplies outside of Central Square. Tell your friends.
Friday, September 2, 2011
How I Got Home From My Vacation: A Hero's Journey
Imagine, if you will, me, your faithful Thursday blogger, groggy and exhausted, staring heavenward into the fluorescent lights of the LAX airport so as not to dislodge any more welling tears from my eyes besides the wayward droplets already streaming through the foundation on my cheeks. Trying to get home from my week long vacation in LA, (it was awesome, thanks for asking) I'm in a line of about 10 people that have all just been told that their 1:30 pm flights to Philadelphia have been canceled; due to Irene, nobody is going to be flying into Philadelphia today. Kaitlyn (friend since squalling infancy, in it for the long haul) and I have been standing at the desk for about 15 minutes now as a very professional US Airways clerk maintains a deeply impressive calm as airports across the country close their runways left and right, and more and more angry, hungry, unwashed masses swarm at her gates, boarding passes held high clasped in sweating, clenched fingers. We're all tense; its Sunday, august 28th, and Kaitlyn and I have already had our connecting flight from Philly to Boston canceled at about 2 am that morning. The plan now is to get as close to Boston as possible and take a bus, train, car, another plane, we don't know. I make a joke to Kaitlyn about renting a burro and leading her into Boston, Mary and Joseph style. My own laughter at my own joke makes me start to cry in an obvious way, so I excuse myself to the ladies room.
When I get back, puffy, red faced, we book a flight from LAX to Charlotte, North Carolina leaving at 10:30 pm, and a connecting flight to Chicago that will land around 9 AM. Chicago is as close as US Airways can get us, and its still 17 hours and change away, but at this point, getting out of LA is our primary goal. The next step is to whittle away at the hours separating us from our flight. If you've never spent the day at the airport, let me tell you, it's a surreal in-between experience, the way I always imagined the anti-gravity room in Ender's Game must have felt like. You can attempt resistance, try to create a forward propulsion for yourself, but you'll just end up spiralling, wandering around a children's toy store and stroking the fur of a plush Spongebob Squarepants doll like some kind of feral wolf-child, just for the tactile comfort it provides you. My advice: take a nap, sprawled across two or three of those uncomfortable airport chairs with one foot on your baggage, then find a bar. Gin, if you can afford it. Just gin, gin, gin, 'till your breath reeks of juniper and suddenly, magically, everything starts to seem just fine.
We landed in Chicago around 9 AM, Saturday, August 29th, right on schedule. From there we took a shuttle bus to Alamo car rentals, and rented a boxy, early-model black PT Cruiser that was promptly named "Rosie O'Donnell" for reasons I can't remember now. We immediately start driving, blasting through Chicago, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and finally, we're in New York when Kaitlyn's parents call at around 7 PM and tell us that there are road closures, and that we shouldn't try for the straight overnight boom to Boston the way we had originally planned. A little defeated but mostly oily and exhausted, we book a room at a Hampton Inn, buy some Margaritaville Lemonades and Miller High Life tallboys at a nearby Walmart Superstore, and watch TV until Kaitlyn falls asleep with National Treasure 3 or something equally inane starring whats-his-name projecting fluttering light across her closed eyelids. I turn off the tv and sink into a quiet cave of soft, white hotel linens and I don't stir until 8 AM the next day.
We are back on the road by 10 AM, where we cook along at a good pace until about 1:50 PM, when we follow signs forcing us off of I-90, which is closed for a few exits because of flooding and other damage. We are taken through Johnstown, New York, which, it turns out, is a pretty rural part of New York. We hit traffic, oh, such traffic do we hit. We hit epic poetry traffic. We hit traffic that the movie "Traffic" should have been based upon. If Odysseus had found himself in this kind of bumper to bumper line up, he would have instantly thrown in the toga. Or maybe he would have done what we did: cry. We cry. We cry and cry and cry, and then I have a panic attack, and then Kaitlyn calls her mom and we cry more. We are crying because we can't get home, no matter how hard we try and it just seems like we never will, we will never get out of these back roads and we'll never feel the tepid, stale air of Allston ruffle our lashes again, not even once more. As you all already know, I am not licensed to drive, nor am I insured, nor am I insured to drive the rental car we are in, so it's totally up to Kaitlyn to drive the entire 900-odd miles between Chicago and Boston. My role is purely that of encouragement, support, rearranging beverages in the cup holders according to necessity, and half-assed navigator. I perform these with a stalwart heroism, but when Kaitlyn grips the wheel and starts yelling obscenities through her tears, it is all I can do to look out the window and not think about how we are doomed forever to trees, and cars, and the little hick towns we pass through where citizens sit out on their lawns in deck chairs taking digital camera pictures of the traffic because this is the most exciting thing to happen on their street since the street itself was cobbled.
Finally, around 8 or 8:30 PM, we reach an intersection and some blessed modernity; stores, a fire station, a Wendy's. We get to use an actual bathroom, porcelain and everything. When we get back in the car and back on the road, we rejoin I-90 and it is a ghost road, just our lone car, passing orange safety lights and the dark outlines of trees. When we get into Massachusetts I try to take a picture of the border sign, but the reflection of my fingers from the inside of the window shield turns the photo ugly, blends two separate images into something bizarre. We pull into a large, dark parking lot and take a power nap; half an hour of quiet time, to try and fool our bodies and minds into thinking we've actually had some legitimate sleep. We recline the front seats into an almost-horizontal position and ignore the adjacent highway. When I open my eyes next I notice the cars on either side of us are doing the exact same thing. It's weirdly intimate, napping with strangers. Kaitlyn and I get back on the road, where we play 20 questions for the next two hours just to stay awake. We play until I can't remember names anymore, and I'm curled up in the passenger's seat with my chin on my knees trying to remember if Meg Ryan has done any movies in the past five years. We pull up in front of my apartment at 2:30 AM, Monday, August 30th, my key works in the door and there is mail crammed inside the small vertical mailbox my roommate and I share. Bills, and something from school, something from Fedex. I get upstairs and my room is a mess, clothes everywhere, dishes abandoned. Proof of my sloth. It looks like a goddamn hurricane hit it.
When I get back, puffy, red faced, we book a flight from LAX to Charlotte, North Carolina leaving at 10:30 pm, and a connecting flight to Chicago that will land around 9 AM. Chicago is as close as US Airways can get us, and its still 17 hours and change away, but at this point, getting out of LA is our primary goal. The next step is to whittle away at the hours separating us from our flight. If you've never spent the day at the airport, let me tell you, it's a surreal in-between experience, the way I always imagined the anti-gravity room in Ender's Game must have felt like. You can attempt resistance, try to create a forward propulsion for yourself, but you'll just end up spiralling, wandering around a children's toy store and stroking the fur of a plush Spongebob Squarepants doll like some kind of feral wolf-child, just for the tactile comfort it provides you. My advice: take a nap, sprawled across two or three of those uncomfortable airport chairs with one foot on your baggage, then find a bar. Gin, if you can afford it. Just gin, gin, gin, 'till your breath reeks of juniper and suddenly, magically, everything starts to seem just fine.
We landed in Chicago around 9 AM, Saturday, August 29th, right on schedule. From there we took a shuttle bus to Alamo car rentals, and rented a boxy, early-model black PT Cruiser that was promptly named "Rosie O'Donnell" for reasons I can't remember now. We immediately start driving, blasting through Chicago, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and finally, we're in New York when Kaitlyn's parents call at around 7 PM and tell us that there are road closures, and that we shouldn't try for the straight overnight boom to Boston the way we had originally planned. A little defeated but mostly oily and exhausted, we book a room at a Hampton Inn, buy some Margaritaville Lemonades and Miller High Life tallboys at a nearby Walmart Superstore, and watch TV until Kaitlyn falls asleep with National Treasure 3 or something equally inane starring whats-his-name projecting fluttering light across her closed eyelids. I turn off the tv and sink into a quiet cave of soft, white hotel linens and I don't stir until 8 AM the next day.
We are back on the road by 10 AM, where we cook along at a good pace until about 1:50 PM, when we follow signs forcing us off of I-90, which is closed for a few exits because of flooding and other damage. We are taken through Johnstown, New York, which, it turns out, is a pretty rural part of New York. We hit traffic, oh, such traffic do we hit. We hit epic poetry traffic. We hit traffic that the movie "Traffic" should have been based upon. If Odysseus had found himself in this kind of bumper to bumper line up, he would have instantly thrown in the toga. Or maybe he would have done what we did: cry. We cry. We cry and cry and cry, and then I have a panic attack, and then Kaitlyn calls her mom and we cry more. We are crying because we can't get home, no matter how hard we try and it just seems like we never will, we will never get out of these back roads and we'll never feel the tepid, stale air of Allston ruffle our lashes again, not even once more. As you all already know, I am not licensed to drive, nor am I insured, nor am I insured to drive the rental car we are in, so it's totally up to Kaitlyn to drive the entire 900-odd miles between Chicago and Boston. My role is purely that of encouragement, support, rearranging beverages in the cup holders according to necessity, and half-assed navigator. I perform these with a stalwart heroism, but when Kaitlyn grips the wheel and starts yelling obscenities through her tears, it is all I can do to look out the window and not think about how we are doomed forever to trees, and cars, and the little hick towns we pass through where citizens sit out on their lawns in deck chairs taking digital camera pictures of the traffic because this is the most exciting thing to happen on their street since the street itself was cobbled.
Finally, around 8 or 8:30 PM, we reach an intersection and some blessed modernity; stores, a fire station, a Wendy's. We get to use an actual bathroom, porcelain and everything. When we get back in the car and back on the road, we rejoin I-90 and it is a ghost road, just our lone car, passing orange safety lights and the dark outlines of trees. When we get into Massachusetts I try to take a picture of the border sign, but the reflection of my fingers from the inside of the window shield turns the photo ugly, blends two separate images into something bizarre. We pull into a large, dark parking lot and take a power nap; half an hour of quiet time, to try and fool our bodies and minds into thinking we've actually had some legitimate sleep. We recline the front seats into an almost-horizontal position and ignore the adjacent highway. When I open my eyes next I notice the cars on either side of us are doing the exact same thing. It's weirdly intimate, napping with strangers. Kaitlyn and I get back on the road, where we play 20 questions for the next two hours just to stay awake. We play until I can't remember names anymore, and I'm curled up in the passenger's seat with my chin on my knees trying to remember if Meg Ryan has done any movies in the past five years. We pull up in front of my apartment at 2:30 AM, Monday, August 30th, my key works in the door and there is mail crammed inside the small vertical mailbox my roommate and I share. Bills, and something from school, something from Fedex. I get upstairs and my room is a mess, clothes everywhere, dishes abandoned. Proof of my sloth. It looks like a goddamn hurricane hit it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Okay, so it's 3 days later...
I don't think we even sell batteries here, or, in other words, probably about 95% of what we sell does not need electricity. If you have been through power outages before, or if Irene brought your first one, you know that your world vastly changes. By candle light and lantern, the sound of silence lingers. What? You mean no texting and FaceBook (if phones are out or have run out of battery power)? I can't charge up my GameBoy? No more re-runs on TV? But what to do with the hours (or possibly days) ahead?
[Dramatic gasp!] How about a book or magazine? A puzzle to finger in between awkward moments of conversations that no longer involve a keypad? Or a game?
Right now, I love to recommend the game "Flip Out" for adults and children.
The object of the game is to match up four cards of the same design together. You can see one side of your opponent's cards, but not the other. So as you trade, you could be benefitting or defeating your opponent. It seems too easy, right? But I assure you that once you get going it is a lot of fun. Switching, swapping, and flipping cards appears to be a basis for one great game.
Takes 2-4 players and I recommend it for children as young as 6.
[Dramatic gasp!] How about a book or magazine? A puzzle to finger in between awkward moments of conversations that no longer involve a keypad? Or a game?
Right now, I love to recommend the game "Flip Out" for adults and children.
The object of the game is to match up four cards of the same design together. You can see one side of your opponent's cards, but not the other. So as you trade, you could be benefitting or defeating your opponent. It seems too easy, right? But I assure you that once you get going it is a lot of fun. Switching, swapping, and flipping cards appears to be a basis for one great game.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Dragons
Maybe even kings need a little help. Sometimes.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Meat and You, and You and Meat, So Happy Together?
For about a solid month in the beginning of the summer, I drove Cressida and Jess, two of the girls who work in card and gift, completely insane because I couldn't stop talking about hot dogs. I sincerely apologize but honestly, it was out of my hands. I couldn't stop. Without fail, every time a break rolled around, I'd somehow steer the conversation back to hot dogs. One day, Boston magazine did a spread on the greatest place in Boston to get a hot dog, its glossy cover all alive with hot dogs in various stages and forms of dress. I was incredulous. I begged Cressida to kill me. I mean what's even the point of living if the very mention of hot dogs drives you into a half-crazed state of delusion, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling around like an upended baby doll. I couldn't live like that. Something had to be done.
Why am I telling you this? 1, to demonstrate how horrible I am to my fellow co-workers when nobody is watching, and 2, to demonstrate that I have really serious feelings about food. My relationship with food really began to kick into gear when I as about 20, finally living on my own and totally in charge of what I ate and when. Foodler.com, a website devoted to ordering take out on the Internet, factored in a lot in my life back then. I was young, I was heavy, I was in a long term relationship and I had a predominantly sedentary job in a video store. Then my video store closed, I got broken up with, and I moved upstairs to the book store where, suddenly, I was on my feet CONSTANTLY. That first 6 months I worked here I used to go home and lie on the hardwood floor, knees drawn to my chest to stretch out my throbbing back.
So a bunch of stuff happened to my body all on its own, due to a couple different things, but I began to do something I had never really done before, which was cook. I didn't really get the swing of it until later, but it began to be something that I thought about. One Christmas, my Dad got me these:
Three of Cooks' Magazine "Best Of" books. I don't know about the other booksellers, but the most common question I get around cookbooks is "My son/daughter/adopted wolf-child raised in the wild has just gone off to college and they have their first kitchen. How will they feed themselves?! Will it just be twigs and berries, or what?! What do I do?" First of all, I say, don't panic. College is a time of experimentation, so those first few years they are going to eat a lot of stuff while under the influence that they will probably regret later. Peanut butter and chicken. I don't have to specify how I know that. I mean, I should instinctively know that but you know what? Sometimes you have to learn to crawl before you can fly. Boom. Real talk. Eventually your kid will learn that they can't keep nutella and ranch dressing in the house at the same time, and then they will join the rest of us Grown Up Land.
Aside from that, though, I ALWAYS recommend these books for youngsters striking out on their own. The recipes are fail safe, literally tried and true, and they range from the very simple and quick to the more challenging and specific. A lot of the recipes even have easy or moderate options within the recipe itself, which I like a lot. Plus they're substantial, heavy hardcovers. Mine are all missing their dust jackets and the yellow pages are smudged and splattered because I've put them through the ringer. I love these books, I couldn't do without them.
Last month, I was looking through the vegetarian cookbooks at the store and I took some recipes out of this guy:
The day I bought it I told everyone about it because generally, as a rule, I can't keep my big obnoxious mouth shut, and the response I got from that was that a lot of people are intrigued by vegetarian cookbooks, but are scared that the recipes are going to be too complicated and they'll never make any of them. This is a totally valid fear, because cooking with vegetables, just like any type of cooking, can be as complex or simple as you want it to be. However, most of us - myself included -lack the culinary knowledge to tamper a recipe to our specific needs. Rose Elliot's book is great for this! There are recipes in here that are literally, a cup full of bulgar wheat, throw in some boiling water, let it sit, stir in some chopped peppers, onions, raisins, and feta, and serve. That is a recipe in this book. It's delicious, its like cous cous but not boring. Yeah. I said it. Come and get me, cous cous fans. Total grain rebel over here.
Finally, recently I've been doing some research online about veganism, which led me to this blog: The Reluctant Raw Foodist, written by someone who has some very serious allergies and, as a result of which, can eat almost no processed foods and even some produce. I'm not entirely vegan or entirely vegetarian, which usually tends to confuse and even aggravate some people. Most see vegetarianism as something you either do or don't do, but I find dabbling works for me. That way, I can limit my contribution to a fairly corrupt conglomerate that abuses its animals, but I can also enjoy a hot dog once a freakin' year.
Guys, I like food. I like ethically grown and killed food, I like food that was harvested by people who are treated fairly and compensated appropriately. Those addendums are super hard to achieve in this day and age! Dude, I like to get my steaming translucent paper cone of street meat out the back of a van outside of Fenway as much as the next citizen, but to what end, Brookline? To what end?
Why am I telling you this? 1, to demonstrate how horrible I am to my fellow co-workers when nobody is watching, and 2, to demonstrate that I have really serious feelings about food. My relationship with food really began to kick into gear when I as about 20, finally living on my own and totally in charge of what I ate and when. Foodler.com, a website devoted to ordering take out on the Internet, factored in a lot in my life back then. I was young, I was heavy, I was in a long term relationship and I had a predominantly sedentary job in a video store. Then my video store closed, I got broken up with, and I moved upstairs to the book store where, suddenly, I was on my feet CONSTANTLY. That first 6 months I worked here I used to go home and lie on the hardwood floor, knees drawn to my chest to stretch out my throbbing back.
So a bunch of stuff happened to my body all on its own, due to a couple different things, but I began to do something I had never really done before, which was cook. I didn't really get the swing of it until later, but it began to be something that I thought about. One Christmas, my Dad got me these:
Three of Cooks' Magazine "Best Of" books. I don't know about the other booksellers, but the most common question I get around cookbooks is "My son/daughter/adopted wolf-child raised in the wild has just gone off to college and they have their first kitchen. How will they feed themselves?! Will it just be twigs and berries, or what?! What do I do?" First of all, I say, don't panic. College is a time of experimentation, so those first few years they are going to eat a lot of stuff while under the influence that they will probably regret later. Peanut butter and chicken. I don't have to specify how I know that. I mean, I should instinctively know that but you know what? Sometimes you have to learn to crawl before you can fly. Boom. Real talk. Eventually your kid will learn that they can't keep nutella and ranch dressing in the house at the same time, and then they will join the rest of us Grown Up Land.
Aside from that, though, I ALWAYS recommend these books for youngsters striking out on their own. The recipes are fail safe, literally tried and true, and they range from the very simple and quick to the more challenging and specific. A lot of the recipes even have easy or moderate options within the recipe itself, which I like a lot. Plus they're substantial, heavy hardcovers. Mine are all missing their dust jackets and the yellow pages are smudged and splattered because I've put them through the ringer. I love these books, I couldn't do without them.
Last month, I was looking through the vegetarian cookbooks at the store and I took some recipes out of this guy:
The day I bought it I told everyone about it because generally, as a rule, I can't keep my big obnoxious mouth shut, and the response I got from that was that a lot of people are intrigued by vegetarian cookbooks, but are scared that the recipes are going to be too complicated and they'll never make any of them. This is a totally valid fear, because cooking with vegetables, just like any type of cooking, can be as complex or simple as you want it to be. However, most of us - myself included -lack the culinary knowledge to tamper a recipe to our specific needs. Rose Elliot's book is great for this! There are recipes in here that are literally, a cup full of bulgar wheat, throw in some boiling water, let it sit, stir in some chopped peppers, onions, raisins, and feta, and serve. That is a recipe in this book. It's delicious, its like cous cous but not boring. Yeah. I said it. Come and get me, cous cous fans. Total grain rebel over here.
Finally, recently I've been doing some research online about veganism, which led me to this blog: The Reluctant Raw Foodist, written by someone who has some very serious allergies and, as a result of which, can eat almost no processed foods and even some produce. I'm not entirely vegan or entirely vegetarian, which usually tends to confuse and even aggravate some people. Most see vegetarianism as something you either do or don't do, but I find dabbling works for me. That way, I can limit my contribution to a fairly corrupt conglomerate that abuses its animals, but I can also enjoy a hot dog once a freakin' year.
Guys, I like food. I like ethically grown and killed food, I like food that was harvested by people who are treated fairly and compensated appropriately. Those addendums are super hard to achieve in this day and age! Dude, I like to get my steaming translucent paper cone of street meat out the back of a van outside of Fenway as much as the next citizen, but to what end, Brookline? To what end?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Grammatical Obsession Can Begin with Board Books
Board books are great for babies and toddlers. But, give one to a ten-year-old, and you'll probably get a look of disdain.
When handselling books, audience is key. You don't want to overwhelm someone by giving them a book that is way too hard or completely uninteresting. But you also don't want to insult someone with a book that is so easy they'd be embarrassed to be reading it -- even under the covers by flashlight. Nevertheless, there are books that transcend many age groups, and each time you read it -- no matter if you are six or seventy-two -- you always have a new experience. Really, this is the mark of an awesome book.
Board books are great because they are durable enough to withstand bites, endless pulling, repeated whacking, and drool. Many fantastic books make their debut in beautifully jacketed hardcover picturebooks before becoming a board book, such as Orange Pear Apple Bear by Emily Gravett. I'm glad this book is finally in board because, sadly, many people mistake this book as a baby-ish book due to its count of five words and four objects. Don't get me wrong, it's great for toddlers as well as five-year-olds, but what many people don't realize is that this book is quite sophisticated. It is not just a book about three pieces of fruit and a friendly bear.
It's all about comma usage. "Orange, bear" basically means an orange and a bear. However, if you were to say "pear bear" then you must mean a pear colored bear. This is the perfect book for learning objects and language as a toddler. Orange Pear is also a great book for grammatical geeks who love to obsess over commas.
Audience can be everything, but don't let it limit your reading list!
Board books are great because they are durable enough to withstand bites, endless pulling, repeated whacking, and drool. Many fantastic books make their debut in beautifully jacketed hardcover picturebooks before becoming a board book, such as Orange Pear Apple Bear by Emily Gravett. I'm glad this book is finally in board because, sadly, many people mistake this book as a baby-ish book due to its count of five words and four objects. Don't get me wrong, it's great for toddlers as well as five-year-olds, but what many people don't realize is that this book is quite sophisticated. It is not just a book about three pieces of fruit and a friendly bear.
It's all about comma usage. "Orange, bear" basically means an orange and a bear. However, if you were to say "pear bear" then you must mean a pear colored bear. This is the perfect book for learning objects and language as a toddler. Orange Pear is also a great book for grammatical geeks who love to obsess over commas.
Audience can be everything, but don't let it limit your reading list!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Overheard in the Used Book Cellar & more proof kids are awesome and weird...really really weird.
I was informed by Jodie this morning that she overheard a little girl, no more than 4 or 5 years old, looking at the used kids books... pulling on her father's sleave and then asking point blank:
"Do they steal these books from little kids?"
Her father assured her that the other children were done with the books, and that they brought them here so other kids could enjoy them.
Now- there is so much happening in this exchange I get flushed with excitement. This BRILLIANT little girl saw that our used books were in fact "used". She may have seen bitten chewed and gently torn pages, with elephantine handwriting identifying previous owners something to the effect of :
Photo courtesy of my niece Maggie. (Such an accurate likeness of my proportions might I add)
Anyway back to the thought...This little girl posed a great question to her dad, one that required some upper level thinking and abstraction. One possible option for her train of thought:
-These books aren't new
-These books aren't new because ANOTHER KID LIKE ME has read them, a lot.
-Why would this other kid want to part with a well used/loved book?
Therefore:
Elf-like booksellers sneak into local family homes, and steal children's books to turn around and sell or ransom back to other children.
I really hope this was the logic, because it's kinda dark, and mostly spectacular. This little girl must be a reader, and I really hope she comes back in with more wildly legitimate questions.
Oh, and worry not, our used books were not stolen, and mostly unchewed upon.
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