timeripple: (dulac fiddle)
Today was a beautiful day, of the kind that remind me why I moved here. Wrote a bit, got a smoothie and drank it in the park with Cavafy’s selected poems, took a nap with Copernicus, wrote some more. Slow progress is being made, much of it on the wrong side of the line between context and wild speculation.

I got an ARC of The Bane Chronicles (collected), and I keep saying I’m done with that whole series, but it is awfully addictive, if absurdly overwrought in places and totally lacking in main characters who are less than ridiculously, angelically (or demonically) attractive. Magnus Bane is pretty much the only character I would actually want to read about at this point (though the terrible movie gave me an unexpected fondness for Isabelle Lightwood). Nostalgic terrible sweater blast! Plus I like just about anything Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson write.

I also like Cavafy a lot, as it turns out.

“One of Their Gods” (C.P. Cavafy, tr. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

When one of them moved through the center of Selefkia
just as it was getting dark—
moved like a young man, tall, extremely handsome,
the joy of immortality in his eyes,
his hair black and perfumed—
the people going by would gaze at him,
and they would ask each other who he was,
if he was a Greek from Syria, or a stranger.
But some who looked more carefully
would understand and step aside;
and as he disappeared under the colonnade,
among the shadows and the evening lights,
going toward the quarter that lives
only at night, with orgies and debauchery,
with every kind of intoxication and desire,
they would wonder which of Them it could be,
and for what suspicious pleasure
he’d come down into the streets of Selefkia
from the August Celestial Mansions.
timeripple: (nodame nom nom)
Happy New Year!

Work has been pretty all-consuming, but I felt very Berkeley this morning—went to the Cheeseboard for a ginger cookie and cheese roll, looked at "comfort shoes" at the mature lady-clothes shop, went to Andronico’s (which has the exact same bulk bins as Monterey Market, only more so). Came home and did half an hour of yoga with assistance from Copernicus the cat. Spent the rest of the day finishing an advance copy of The Blazing World, which I don't think I'm allowed to discuss pre-publication but about which I have many thoughts.

I thought about going back out and getting milk and eggs for a quiche tonight, but in the end opted to make a sort of salad by cooking frozen blackberries together with tofu and leftover sushi rice in a little pot and mixing that with spinach and pepitas garnished with fresh blackberries, sort of a less successful riff on Heidi Swanson’s black rice and cherry salad. It was… not all that delicious, to be honest, but it looked pretty. The white rice absorbs the blackberry juice and looks kind of like pomegranate seeds, if you don’t look too closely. Dinner reading: MFK Fisher’s Musings on Wine and Other Libations. She's delightful.

In other news, inspired by [livejournal.com profile] mousapelli and by extreme intellectual boredom and hatred of retail, I am seriously considering a try at a PhD. Probably in comparative literature rather than straight-up English, though really a mountain--nay, a mountain range--of research needs to be done before I even know where to apply. I had this revelation just in time to miss all application deadlines for this fall, so I'll have to wait almost two years to actually start--assuming I find a program I want that wants me--but I am pretty sure I can fill the time. I have a few real-world sources, but any suggestions and/or advice would be most welcome.

If I insist on spending all my spare time writing scholarly papers about Greek literature in Victorian children's novels, I might as well get credit for it.

My anthropologist housemate K. recommends that I take up kendo to increase my confidence. We shall see.
timeripple: (fyeah curly redheaded heroines)
Not very creative, perhaps, but seasonally appropriate, and anyway it’s freezing in here. It may be mid-sixties autumn outside, warm light and drifting golden leaves, but I keep waking up expecting snow and red-brick towers and black lamp-posts.

Also I’ve finally begun reading A Game of Thrones and am enjoying it a lot more than I thought I would. I’m impressed with the HBS team’s ability to recommend things: I must say we chose better than we knew when we featured the re-jacketed Young Miles in Other Games, Other Thrones. (Better than we knew because none of us had actually read GoT. Nobody told me about Tyrion Lannister! And Arya Stark would be right at home in a Tamora Pierce novel.)

Speaking of books I’m enjoying a lot more than I thought I would, Cruel Beauty by Rosamund Hodge (pub 1/28/14) is excellent! Beauty and the Beast meets Greco-Roman mythology meets Tam Lin with unexpected shades of Diana Wynne Jones! I was only disappointed that *spoiler* wasn’t an anagram for *spoiler* because that would have been awesome, though possibly too much. And then, hilariously, I saw [livejournal.com profile] idiosyncreant listed as a beta-reader in the acknowledgements. YAY!

Things have been crazy at work and I’ve been super grumpy and had to give myself the “these people interrupting your frantic shelving are the people who keep you in business, so SMILE AND BE NICE TO THEM” talk. In between going up to full time at the store and running all the social media, though, I’ve finally been making progress on my re-read of The Daisy Chain, so that’s immensely satisfying.

I went to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner and brought molasses spice cookies from the Flour recipe book. They were universally praised—supremely gratifying! I hope you all had an excellent Thanksgiving and happy Hanukkah and are staying sane going into the Christmas season. I am myself, against all probability, warming to the holiday spirit. And I am endlessly thankful: for health, employment, a roof over my head and good food and books and music, for family and most of all for my friends. You are precious to me.
timeripple: (intellectual dilettante)
It turns out that my alter ego--or one of them--is an Oscar Wilde character. Why is nobody surprised?

September is over and I've been writing not enough, but taking in vast amounts of media. I've become addicted to Welcome to Night Vale and Elementary, watched most of Coffee House at long last, and attended the theatre. Of Sam Shepard's Buried Child, I say:

...an intriguing and infuriating work, in which contradictions casually occupy the same space and horror and comedy obscenely intertwine. Shepard's brilliant dialog serves less to convey information than to underscore what is not said. Perpendicular to the central mysteries is a disturbing gender and generational dynamic, in which the female characters exist either as plot points or as objects upon which the male characters enact the full force of their outrageousness. The text invites not analysis but speculation; the audience must reconcile itself to non-reconcilliation as the play's hideous absurdities both repel and fascinate.

I've also been blogging less opaque reviews at Clarissa's Bookshelf. And gardening (the arugula is spectacular) and attempting to better my piano skills and entertaining the cat Copernicus. I found a marvelous Ted Hughes poem the other day, but I'm saving it for winter.

And now I'm going to go procrastinate by reading Diana Wynne Jones, and you can't stop me.
timeripple: (Default)
I must be a grown-up. Today I actually thought, Kids. They know a little bit, maybe they know a lot, and they think they know everything.

Allow me to explain. (And please keep in mind that this is partly in response to a lot of ugliness about feminism I’ve been seeing around Tumblr, and partly in response to trying to marshal my thoughts on the new David Levithan novel, Two Boys Kissing. It is not a reasoned, quotable essay; it is a record of my own thoughts and feelings. It may veer into the tactlessly bitter.)

This afternoon, a couple of teenagers (not a teenage couple) came in and immediately started talking about the books, loudly and with the kind of indubitable, indignant authority sometimes displayed by the whip-smart young (and by the insecure intellectual male of any age). Well, the girl was doing the talking, anyway. She was clearly an authority on LGBTQ lit and declared herself the guy's Sassy Gay Friend.

Of The Song of Achilles: “The Greeks were way into homosexuality.” Of a number of YA books: “Stonewall” (that’s a British LGBTQ award). Of Cinder: “It was okay.” Of The Princess Bride: “That is the greatest book ever, and if you disagree, you are wrong.” On Teen Wolf: “If you are a lesbian, you will die! ‘Don’t be like this; you will die in a thousand horrible ways.’”

(This is a valid criticism: Danny is openly gay and the whole school’s darling, but the only lesbians were the Victim Couple at the beginning of Season 3, one of whom died horribly. It should be pointed out, though, that the role of Victim Couple is usually played by a straight pair, such as on Every Episode of Supernatural Ever. And the Victim Lesbians were adorable, right up until one of them got ritually murdered. Why did you have to murder one of the Adorable Victim Lesbians, show? They were so adorable.)

The girl approved of Will Grayson, Will Grayson and went into passionate, worshipful ecstasies on the subject of John Green. And, listening, I wanted to ask her: Have you liked any YA LGBTQ books by women? Any at all? How about Ash, Huntress, Pink, Parrotfish, Luna, If You Could Be Mine, Sister Mischief, Silhouette of a Sparrow?

Her companion said, mildly, “I’m a marketing guy” and bought The Fault in Our Stars, Ready Player One, and Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls.

And I thought, just a little bit, Teenagers. They get to know a little, and suddenly they think know everything.

But I also thought, They’re so much smarter about this stuff than we were at that age (“we” being the teenage peer group I grew up with in rural Northern California, myself included). And I think that’s partly because they have a literature we didn’t: a readily available literature that discusses sexuality and gender and race with teens as the focal point, teen experiences as the central narrative. They have a critical vocabulary and a hundred ways and places to talk about it that we didn’t have.

Don’t stop thinking. Don’t stop talking. Think more, talk more, listen more too.

(Ask yourself why all the authors you’re worshipping are men.

(Ask your Marketing Guy friend.)
timeripple: (t-rex agent of chaos)
Instead of using some fortuitous free days to write Very Serious Professional Book reviews, I wrote the following plot summary of [livejournal.com profile] blackholly's new book, The Coldest Girl in Coldtown. I'm too pretty to d-- )
timeripple: (fyeah curly redheaded heroines)
It’s Rimsky-Korsakov day on my local public radio. Symphony #2 “Antar” in f# Op 9 yesssss. Apparently it’s also Knightly Theme Day, which is making me nostalgic for that one epics class back in college that, while a total joke, was super interesting.

Sometimes the only way to find out what’s going on is to hack into your superior’s email account. (Is it still hacking if he or she told you his or her password so you could get people’s email addresses? And if you told him or her ahead of time that you were doing it?)

You know it’s time to find a new line of employment when one of your senior colleagues says, “We love having you around, but—not to insult myself—you are wasted on this job.” Don’t I know it.

Despite all of that, work is going well, and not spending every day completely frustrated and angry is an improvement over last year.

I had a pretty quiet Fourth of July: had the day off work; got teary over the Declaration of Independence, as is my way; made berry crumble (it was going to be pie but I ran out of energy). I was going to go see the fireworks at the marina, but as I walked downtown to catch the bus, I grew increasingly apprehensive. The streets were almost totally deserted except for the homeless people. I spent 15 creepy minutes waiting for the bus to show up late and drive right by, crammed with drunk firework-goers, at which point I gave up and came back home. I spent the evening eating crumble and trying to reassure Copernicus, who did not like the firework noises in the slightest. Poor kitty.

Today I mostly spent passed out on my bed; I think I’ve finally caught whatever cold is going around at work. Copernicus deigned to nap beside me for a while, a gesture of great catly magnanimity. He was not impressed with either of my reading materials (ARCs by [livejournal.com profile] blackholly and [livejournal.com profile] catvalente).

Super excited to go see the Joss Whedon Much Ado movie with my friend AG tomorrow.

And finally, a very happy not-quite-belated birthday to [livejournal.com profile] snowqueenofhoth! I hope you had a lovely day and ate many strawberries.
timeripple: (i said nothing)
I don’t understand how the year can have got to the end of June without my noticing, but I blame it on my housemate’s cat, Copernicus. He is an enormous ginger tabby, and most distracting, though a good companion. He likes to listen to me fiddling and serenading the neighbors with increasingly bizarre versions of Bach minuets on the fancy electronic keyboard. (This is not all that impressive, since two and a half Bach minuets and a very short Mozart thingy are all I actually know how to play.) He also likes to chase (but not eat) hair ties, and to crouch in his crinkly tunnel, only to spring out at a bit of plumy feather at the end of a string tied to a stick. He stomps across the floor if he thinks you’re not paying him enough attention.

In other news, I’ve been settling into my new home, figuring out my commute to work, watching Supernatural (it’s so bad, and yet so amazing), being polite to people with bizarre book requests, running events, filling in for our children’s buyer, reading ARCs at top speed, and totally failing to work on any of my own writing. Though I did rescue the new Penguin Classics De Profundis and Other Prison Writings by Oscar Wilde from the give-away shelf, and have started reading it. (It’s not directly relevant to my work, but it does have to do with applying Greek philosophical writings to Victorian life, so.)

Berkeley is so weird. It’s a lot like Cambridge, only more so. And I keep finding that people are very, very invested in promoting and maintaining a binary gender dichotomy. Is it because mostly I interact with fairly affluent parents while at work? And yet other people, who I might expect to be less invested, are equally so. Do they not realize they live in Berkeley? Does "Berkeley" not mean what I thought it means? I have to say, this is not what I thought the biggest cultural difference from the East Coast would entail. (Well, this and food service.) I didn’t think people would be surprised whenever I go around muttering “Gender is a social construct!” under my breath.

I miss you all so. I woke up this morning fiercely homesick for Wellesley. I’ve been thinking a lot about its rhetoric lately, I suppose; though what I miss is not the rhetoric but my people, both those I met there and later, elsewhere.

Also chai. I’ve found two good places near work, but so far everything in North Berkeley is complete swill, or worse. (Seriously. Last week I had a very nice cup of spiced hot water and mint that tasted like it had never seen tea. I could do better myself with a Lipton bag and no cinnamon.) Happily, the muffins remain excellent. As Oscar Wilde no doubt knew, it is important not to underestimate the importance of a good muffin.
timeripple: (fyeah curly redheaded heroines)
I’ve been meaning to write for weeks, but, you know, things happened: I read a picturebook about a highway-rat, complete with coat of claret velvet and lace at his little rat chin. I started reading I, Claudius because I picked it up off a dollar cart and got twenty percent off for identifying that week’s guess-the-quote (the Aeneid, Arma virumque cano etc). I finished watching Flower Boy Next Door and King of Dramas, and I was going to write last night, but then I thought, no, I’ll just check out the first episode of Answer Me, 1997, I probably won’t like it because I won’t get the ‘90s k-pop references but we’ll just see.

In retrospect, I should have known better. JUST TAKE MY HEART, I WASN’T USING IT ANYWAY.

Mind you, I said the same thing three days ago when I read Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell. (It’s Big News now that John Green reviewed it in the New York Times, and that review and my reaction are an excellent example of vastly differing reader communities. We both loved it, but wow, it’s like we read entirely different books. You should read it too: there’s an awkward, magnificent, Romeo-&-Juliet-hating curly redhead, an eyeliner-wearing comic-reading half-Korean, epic explosions of adorableness and angst, all set to a soundtrack of terrible parenting and the Smiths.)

Actually these two stories are very similar in certain ways: they so perfectly embody the awkwardness, the intensity of being a teenager in a not-so-long-ago age (Eleanor & Park takes place in 1986; Answer Me, 1997 takes place in, obviously, 1997). Both stories are about growing up—that long liminal moment between dependence and independence. They’re about family, first love (true love?), and—of course—music.

They’re about a time in life that—if we’ve had the privilege of experiencing it (and so many young people haven’t, or experience it differently than I did and the characters in these stories do)—we’re expected to leave behind. But that shouldn’t mean we ignore it completely, and I think a lot of people read YA partly because, on some level, teenagerhood informs the rest of our lives, and the things we start working through then don’t just disappear because we hit twenty. This doesn’t mean adult readers of YA are immature or incapable of handling adulthood. It means, perhaps, that we’re still in touch with our younger selves in a way that demands some level of engagement. That questions about identity, family, love, one’s place in the world—that these are universal and ageless, in narrative just as much as in non-narrative philosophy; in living YA just as much as in anything written by dead white dudes.

That’s not the only reason for adults to read or write or edit YA, of course. But it is one that I think deserves a little more credit than it generally gets. It’s more usually phrased as the self-deprecatory “Well, I guess I’m still a teenager at heart”—but I think it demands (and deserves) more examination than that.
timeripple: (fake texting (it's super important))
Yesterday I had Ravel’s Bolero stuck in my head and hummed it at work all afternoon.

The day before that, someone in my Korean class suggested watching dramas with Korean subs to practice reading. I decided to watch an episode of something I had already seen and thus did not need to actually watch again. While searching for something entirely different, I came across Big Bang re-enacting Coffee Prince. Well, that was an entertaining ten minutes, but a total failure for subtitle reading. Then I decided I just had to find something I had already seen and had absolutely no interest in re-watching.

Two episodes of Boys Before Flowers later... I’m not allowed to subtitle-watch anything with Lee Min-ho’s face in it. XD

In other news, now that I have a brand new stack of galleys, it’s time to post some reviews of old galleys!Murder! And more murder!: Grave Mercy, Paper Valentine, and Quintana of Charyn )

What’re you reading these days?
timeripple: (fyeah curly redheaded heroines)
I’m finally starting to do things I should have done three months ago (namely, apartment-hunt, think about whether I need to get a car, make plans. Yunno, the small things). In celebration, it is time for a book post! As previously mentioned, my Christmas present to myself was a stack of galleys purloined (with permission) from my former place of employment.

Without further ado! Scarlet by Marissa Meyer )

I have commandeered my dad’s car (and also my dad) for a trip to hunt wild apartments in Berkeley tomorrow. Wish me luck!
timeripple: (anenome)
Alas, I have been delinquent from this journal as usual by the twin causes of travel and sloth. A few weeks ago I traipsed about New York City with [livejournal.com profile] mousapelli, eating everything in sight, getting stuck in a human traffic jam, and inflicting much merry butchery upon the ears of the Karaoke Duet staff. (I maintain that KAT-TUN songs as rendered by your resident hoarse Disney Princess are hilarious.) The next day it was my honor to attend my dear [livejournal.com profile] a4yroldfaerie’s wedding in a shocking fuschia dress and sparkly black nail polish. Many the portions of mac’n’cheese that were consumed at the reception, and many the cranberry vodkas too; many the tales that flew about the table.

Thence to Boston to see more old friends and do a little holiday helping at the bookstore. Many lines of Tiny Homer were set and printed! More mac’n’cheese was consumed! Also dumplings. (Look, I promise I did some actual bookselling on this trip; I didn’t just sit around eating. Not entirely anyway. Ahem. Right. I, uh, also drank some chai.)

I do love bookselling during the holidays. Everything is happy chaos. It was totally not my idea to goad J. into playing four-part harmony carols over the loudspeaker… in Korean. Nuh-uh.

I managed not to burst into uncontrollable sobbing until my return plane was about half an hour out from landing. Which I guess is an improvement? Last time I only made it about as far as Jamaica Plain. XD

So I’ve been trying to think about how to sum up this year, philosophize about it, and really that isn’t working out so well. So instead, have a list of all the books I read for the first time this year, chronologically organized. (I’m, uh, leaving out most of the picturebooks and re-reads, because that would make this even more ridiculously long. I’ve included release dates for any that aren’t out yet and also those that came out in 2012 for nefarious purposes of my own. Yes, my present to myself was a giant stack of galleys purloined from the buying office.)

The Year in Review )

Currently reading: Antigonick by Sophocles and Anne Carson. "Footsteps pass so perilously soft across the sea in marble winter." There are no page numbers but the quote is from a choral speech pretty early on.

So there you have it. Happy New Year, all.
timeripple: (nodame nom nom)
Well, and here we are on 12/12/12. We have just finished setting up the small tree that I tramped down the hillside out back to saw down with my own hands. It is unusually seasonal around here and no mistake. I think it will snow tonight.

Last week I took a very nice business-and-pleasure trip to San Francisco. It was totally unproductive on the job-getting front, it turns out, but I did see old friends and meet wonderful new people. I ate French toast in a sparkly, sparkly diner and had some really fantastic green curry and a really terrible cream puff. (Not all at the same time.) Half the UC Berkeley population randomly smiled at me in a not-particularly-creepy way. There was chai.

I had just enough time to visit The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. AMAZING. I cannot recommend it enough. The Snowy Day was a landmark picturebook, and the original art pieces are stunning—so rich and vivid. The exhibit had art from many of Keats’s other books as well, and also a little room dedicated to his friendship with a Japanese puppet theatre troupe. Their letters show a mutual artistic appreciation and frank, honest affection that I found very touching.

Then it was time to wait for the Amtrak bus home, and I stood on a footbridge looking across at a conference center with a carousel on top. Oh, SF. ♥
timeripple: (nodame nom nom)
I have been a total failure at posting this month, mostly out of sheer laziness and also from feeling like a cat being cuddled and then squeezed too tight. But! Happy Thanksgiving (or Colonial Oppression Day with Food, as we say in my parents’ household). I am so very thankful for my family and my friends, those whom I see often and not-so-often and never, and for the opportunity to travel and see new places, and for music, and books, and chai, and all the wonderful things that I have and have the chance to do.

My friends have been on my mind a lot lately. The beginning of the month was full of travel and madness, first to Atlanta for a wedding and thence to the wilds of North Carolina for hangout times. I got to experience four new airports (apparently I collect them now?) and see a lot of people I haven’t seen in a long time.

The details, oh so many of them )

Phew. I’m exhausted just from cobbling all that together out of my exhausted-and-chai-high notes. Celebratory pie is in order. Yes. I hope you are all safe and warm and fed, my friends. There are more travels ahead, and I’m looking forward to seeing some of you in a few weeks!
timeripple: (anenome)
Here am I this All Hallows Eve, sitting in the darkened living room with rain overhead and scones in the oven, the dog snoozing on the rug. Before me is the prospect of much packing, for tomorrow I am bound for parts unknown—i.e., Atlanta—first to a dear friend’s wedding and thence to visiting other dear friends. I am bringing to read Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve: How the World Became Modern (concerning the re-discovery of Lucretius) and Fire and Hemlock, the enigmatic seasonally appropriate masterpiece of Diana Wynne Jones.

Once packing is finished there will commence the traditional reading of The Perilous Gard, and then bed.

Happy Halloween.
timeripple: (toma sakura)
“The sun shone so strong and bright, it seemed it would never set. People changed, things happened under that eternal sun. I wasn’t aware of it but autumn was shooting out buds. Then suddenly one morning the wind turned cold and the sky looked so high, a reminder of the passage of time, dashing my hopes that summer would never end.”

(Banana Yoshimoto, N.P. Because in some parts of California--okay, most of them--Gerard Manley Hopkins simply doesn't work. And I love this quote.)

Except I love fall.

Now, if only I knew where my copy of Kitchen was...
timeripple: (i said nothing)
Sometimes I unintentionally (or at least subconsciously) have a reading streak on a particular theme. Has this ever happened to you?

Or am I just now noticing that things have more in common than I think they do? (Does that even make sense? Look, I've been sitting here typing for four hours, nothing much makes sense to me any more.)

Come back past philology and kennings: World War II Novels, Icelandic Sagas, and Seamus Heaney )
timeripple: (dulac fiddle)
My internet darlings, I am long since returned from BEA, where I did manage to acquire a few galleys but not many (and it was like pulling teeth or dodging piranhas to get the ones I did. Luckily J. was with me, and she is tiny, vicious and without scruple). On plus side, was weighed down only by books I really wanted. Also plus side: spending lots of time with [livejournal.com profile] a4yroldfaerie and her cat and her roommate's cat, the latter of whose affections I seem to be branded a thief. NOT MAH FAULT TEH KITTEHS LIEK ME.

This evening I sat down to write, typed in the date, and promptly had to go get yet another glass of pink lemonade-mint mojito-flavored seltzer water concoction. Mmmm, refreshing. The temperature was in the upper nineties today for no good reason that I can see. I remembered to close my windows before I left, but it is still quite hot and stuffy indoors.

The temperature outside was actually quite bearable, once I accepted that my entire body was going to feel like it was made of molten lead all day.

Today's adventure involved, well, venturing out to the Boston Paper Collective to set type for, in my book artsy friend R.'s words, “tiny Homer”. Translation: it took a bit over two hours to set, by hand, the first ten lines of Chapman’s Iliad. In six-point Bodoni.

That... that is really tiny.

I had to take a break halfway through. And I kept cracking up at Chapman's idea of translation, which is more like really elaborate retelling.

timeripple: (dulac fiddle)
Packing for BEA (BookExpo America)! Why am I incapable of packing except in the wee hours? Sigh. [livejournal.com profile] snowqueenofhoth and [livejournal.com profile] mousapelli have talked me out of bringing four pairs of shoes. Mostly.

In what's-Fiona-reading-these-days: The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater (her werewolves-with-science series wasn't quite my cup of tea, but this is different).

How do I explain my feelings for this book?

You know what moment when you’ve been thinking maybe you’re finally too old for horse stories, and then you find out you’re not?

Oh, my heart.
timeripple: (riko says buzzer beat!)
O neglected Internets, I have acquired permission to attend BEA (BookExpo America)! BRING ON THE FANGIRLS AND THE INFAMOUS KARAOKE. Will I see you there?


The other day I was standing at the information desk with my tiniest, most adorable colleague (henceforth known as t.m.a.c.) and this young twentysomething dude was walking past us on his way out.

DUDE: *espies Hunger Games display on infodesk*
DUDE: Oh, the Hunger Games! Oh my god, do you know what they’re doing to them?
FIONA & t.m.a.c.: ...
DUDE: Well, when I first read them, they were, you know, apocalyptic—-really dark, you know?
FIONA & t.m.a.c.: *nod*
DUDE: And now they’re marketing them to tweens! Making them seem all fluffy, when--it’s dark stuff! Really dark!
FIONA & t.m.a.c.: ...
DUDE: Tweens!
DUDE: *leaves in a fit of indignation at this injustice to his beloved, dark books and this deception practiced upon sweet, innocent youth*
FIONA & t.m.a.c.: ...
FIONA & t.m.a.c.: Does he know they’re published by Scholastic?

People are funny.


timeripple: (Default)

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