What would Nancy Spungen do?
Mar. 12th, 2006 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
constanceI worked at the bookstore until closing time tonight, for the first time, I think, since the HP release party. It's very hard for me to work late nights on Saturdays when the rest of my week is pretty early, and so I was expecting to be pretty cranky come, say, nine pm or so, but thanks to an unexpected convergence of Good Things--working with my favorite manager, finally remembering to return the book I'd checked out months ago so I could check out another one, things like that--it really wasn't so bad at all.
A strange thing happened to me, though. I was zoning back in the children's department (for those of you unschooled in BN jargon, this means scanning books and pulling some for returns, alphabetizing, dusting, things like that), and a boy, maybe about fourteen, walked up, picked up the post-it pad we use to return damaged books from where it sat on the floor beside me, stole a page from it, and walked away again without saying a word. And then about ten minutes later he did it again. I mean, it's not even as though the sticky notes would come in handy--they're preprinted and there's not much free space on them--and there was a blank post-it pad also on the floor, and I was hoping he would come back by so I could ask him what on earth he was doing, but I never saw him again. It was all very mysterious.
This late-night update brought to you by a 16-ounce iced caramel latte, without which I would even now be asleep in my snug little bed.
A strange thing happened to me, though. I was zoning back in the children's department (for those of you unschooled in BN jargon, this means scanning books and pulling some for returns, alphabetizing, dusting, things like that), and a boy, maybe about fourteen, walked up, picked up the post-it pad we use to return damaged books from where it sat on the floor beside me, stole a page from it, and walked away again without saying a word. And then about ten minutes later he did it again. I mean, it's not even as though the sticky notes would come in handy--they're preprinted and there's not much free space on them--and there was a blank post-it pad also on the floor, and I was hoping he would come back by so I could ask him what on earth he was doing, but I never saw him again. It was all very mysterious.
This late-night update brought to you by a 16-ounce iced caramel latte, without which I would even now be asleep in my snug little bed.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-13 12:44 am (UTC)Criss Cross has gotten a great deal of bad press from people who don't think it should have won the award, and I can sort of see why--Perkins's style is far too gentle and introspective for your average teenager--but it's so very lovely, gentle and introspective and subtly funny, and beautifully written in a style I think you'd appreciate very much. Which, you know, is why I brought it up in the first place.