Hey, Santa Blobs:
You may think you deserve a Pulitzer, but if I had a vote, it would be just the first two letters. I guess you won’t remember, but I’m the one who kept getting fuzzy bunny books from her mother. Well, I’m a teenager now, and Mom is letting me graduate. Now she’s going to your Book Fair and getting TEEN ROMANCES, by people like Maureen Daly and Betty Cavanna, all brown around the edges and with inscriptions like “To Laurie-Loo from Patty-Pie, Best friends! Go Class of ’66!” This is worse than Bunky Bunny Goes beddy-Bye! I’m looking for things like Fifty Shades of Grave, with proper amounts of sex and the undead. The only books I get with any bite are from my dad, who seems to think I want to be a dentist someday. What kind of enterprise are you running over there, you roly-poly ratfink?
Dear Purr Fur:
Ah, how could I forget one of my most consistent customers? It’s your pert acceptance of life’s little surprises which makes you memorable. To say nothing of your charm of manner.
You really ought to be able to adapt to these books your mother brings you by this time. Their secondhand nature should offer you all kinds of joys. Remember: a lot of these books come from the immediate neighborhood. Could one of those people you pass in the street be the Laurie-Loo of years agone? Maybe you should investigate. Whatever became of Patty-Pie? Are they still best friends? Maybe they quarreled. Maybe there’s some ancient wrong you could undo. Maybe one of them wound up killing the other. Wouldn’t THAT be fun?
I understand that your mother is buying you heartwarming when what you want is bloodchilling. But if you don’t become so violent this Christmas that they have to put you away in a Home for Incurable Door Slammers, you can come to a Book Fair next year. At our prices, you could buy two sets of paperbacks: a stack of fine old teen romances (have you tried Peggy Gaddis yet?) which you can take the covers off of to be placed over the books you buy yourself out of the ghosts and ghouls genre you prefer. Best of both possible worlds: your mother thinks you’re reading young love in spring while you study your old cadavers in the well novels. You need to learn to ADAPT, egg nog dumpling.
Speaking of adapting, all you blog readers, could you pass the word along that the Newberry will be closed six days out of the next couple of weeks. I will myself be headed west for a period of rest and relaxation in the warm sun and balmy breezes of December in Iowa. (There’s plenty of sunshine in Iowa in December; they just store above all those clouds.) Only a skeleton staff will be available, which would entertain today’s correspondent but which is not so useful for hauling books into the building. PLEASE try to avoid making any huge donations during this time. I would hate to miss your collection of teen romances: I know just who wants to buy them.
Keep warm, read books (even from a screen), and dream of the wonders 2015 will bring. I hope to be back in this same bat-channel come January. L’chaim!