POLITIK: Guess What - It's Tom DeLay's Frisbee Now

Damn it! What did I tell you kids?
Yeah, I'm talking to you, you little hippie freaks. Didn't I tell you to stop messing around on the Capitol lawn? Don't act like you didn't hear me when I stuck my head out the window earlier. I saw you look up. I saw you laughing. Punks! I told you to clear out and take your games somewhere else. Then, not 15 minutes later, this thing sails right through the window and interrupts deliberations of the House Committee on Ways and Means.

I love The Onion almost as much as Jack Abramoff loves Indian casino money.

CHOW: “Not even WENDSLEYDALE?”

NYT’s argument that we’ve, just now, hit the tipping point with artisanal cheese is a little off, in my opinion. I mean, hell, I’ve been making myself Marcey Street Market’s man-whore for years now – and from the looks of the crowd in front of the counter every time I’m in there, I’m not the only one. And now we’ve got Pastoral in Lakeview to make with the cheesy goodness. If anything, there’s just more of us unwilling to put up with the waxy, flavorless party-chunks from the local supermarket in favor of something not necessarily fancier, but definitely more fun. (And FUNKY, too. Unpasteurized sheep’s milk cheddar from Australia – smells like feet. Tastes like heaven. Oh - and the Midnight Moon, too.)

POLITIK: Ranting Upward

Some funny about UN Ambassador nominee Yosemite Sam and The Notorious D.N.C. from ever-dependable and mucho-caliente Wonkette.

CHEKIT: The best interviewer in the history of broadcast media. Period.

As long as we're on a public radio kick here, I might as well talk about the badassinest talk show host ever - or rather, quote the website givin' her mad props:

Gross isn't afraid to ask tough questions, but she sets an atmosphere in which her guests volunteer the answers rather than surrender them. What often puts those guests at ease is Gross' understanding of their work. "Anyone who agrees to be interviewed must decide where to draw the line between what is public and what is private. But the line can shift, depending on who is asking the questions," observes Gross. "What puts someone on guard isn't necessarily the fear of being 'found out.' It sometimes is just the fear of being misunderstood."

Listen to me now: There's no reason why a public radio host, even one as widely listened to as Terry, should be able to get Brad Bird, Stephen Colbert, Ari Fleischer, Tim Curry, Lynne Cheney (not to mention Bill O'Reilly and Gene Simmons) unless one has an unfailing command of one's craft, and an uncanny ability to ask the questions the audience didn't even know they wanted to ask. And she does.

MUZIK: Public Radio rocks out – hey – it’s not ALL lefty propaganda.

If you're a hardcore public radio nerd like me, you'll have realized at least one thing - these people dig good tunes. I mean, hell - in between stories and during segments, what's playing underneath is often just as, if not more interesting than what they're talking about. They've got this show that kicks the new cool jams long before the hipper-than-thous sink their pretentious claws into them. Give it a go.

And while you're at it, listen to this guy - he's got similar tastes and troubles - and like ATC, he's bound to drown you in pretty, poppy misery.

CHEKIT: Homer Sings. Everything.

"Nacho, nacho man! I want to be...a nacho man!"

CHEKIT: Never promise anything to Honeysuckle.

I promised Honeysuckle I'd put this up. Before I saw the picture. Stupid, STUPID.

It was New Year's. That's all I'm gonna say about it. Except that I looked much better in the tuxedo when I was vertical.

I tried looking for something evil and incriminating to use against her - but all I could come up with was this. I'm a little tired and no good dirty takes on omlet-making come to mind. As soon as come up with something nasty, image or insult-wise, I'll let you know.

CHOW: Spring grub.

Spring is here. And my main girl over at C&Z is getting it done with some recipe posts for warmer weather. Enjoy!

Shallot Parsley Dip

Ratatouille Confite au Four

CHEKIT: Looking for new digs?

The lady-pimp at the helm of Lifehacker comes through with yet another incredibly cool and incredibly useful item:

Once upon a time there were a bunch of web services that did certain things very well. Then software developers would come along, hook them together and make something even more useful - wait, that time is now!

Graphics expert Paul Rademacher coupled the power of Craigslist housing listings and Google Maps for a brilliant visual way to search for property for rent or for sale. See photos of apartments and houses right in Google Maps’ pop-up bubble, and filter by price and city. Neat!!

Craigslist: GOOD. Google Maps: COOL as HELL. And now, thanks to Paul, they're two great tastes that taste great together.

CHEKIT: "Breakin' Hearts and Bustin' Kneecaps"

A couple of days ago, we received the following email from Betty Larceny, one of Lucy Furr's associates:

Read your blog, thought you might like a copy of the flier, the party is this Friday, April 22nd.

Breakin' hearts and Bustin' kneecaps,

Betty Larceny

I emailed her back and mentioned that I was looking forward to a fun evening - but what I really wanted to say was "You had me at 'Giant Twister.' "

If you're lookin for me after 11 tomorrow night, you know where to find me. And if you'd like to go, get a hold of me. Chances are, if you read this blog, you know how to do that.

CHEKIT: Bush Administration Immortalized By Fungi-Eating Insects

My only wish is that they were dung beetles. [via Wonkette]

CHEKIT: Jarts: Instant Dog-Kebabs!

From the splash page of jarts.com:

WARNING: Lawn Jarts have been banned for manufacturing and resale in the United States. The government of the United States has asked that all Jarts be destroyed. In no way do we encourage or condone children using Jarts. Injuries from Lawn Jarts can result in serious injury or possibly even death. Those who play in this tournament are aware of the dangers of using Lawn Jarts and choose to take on the responsibilities associated with this sport.

I mean, just reading this post could get you arrested or killed. Seriously. Maybe you should back slowly away from this web page and try this instead.

Then again, if this guy's to be believed, you've got nothing much to worry about.

CHEKIT: Nerds at DEFCON-1: Doctor Who is back

For a while, it looked like it was never coming back - I mean, fifteen years is one helluva hiatus. And I've never understood why. I mean, was there ever a more charming time machine in the history of modern entertainment than the TARDIS? (The DeLorean was cool, but it was never homey.) I think the BBC finally got tired of opening mail from angry, angry nerds - so, finally, at the end of last month, new episodes were broadcast. And from all the hubbub, it looks like it's back to stay. I'm afraid, however, that with all the advances in digital effects, the new series won't be as cheesy as it used to be. I'm not gonna complain too much, though.

And now, for a wholly gratuitous picture of Tom Baker:

CHEKIT: Hacking the Papal Election

Some reverently view the election of the new Pope during the current Papal conclave as a holy centuries-old tradition, held sacred in the eyes of a billion Catholics and arguably more important than any other vote held in the last 26 years. If you're Bruce Schneier, however, you're thinking that, as far as vote tabulation goes, the Vatican spanks Katherine Harris' bony ass every time:

How hard is this to hack? The first observation is that the system is entirely manual, making it immune to the sorts of technological attacks that make modern voting systems so risky. The second observation is that the small group of voters -- all of whom know each other -- makes it impossible for an outsider to affect the voting in any way. The chapel is cleared and locked before voting. No one is going to dress up as a cardinal and sneak into the Sistine Chapel. In effect, the voter verification process is about as perfect as you're ever going to find.

By the way - as much mojo as Cardinal Ratzinger's got goin', we here at Dispatches have got our money on someone, clearly, much more qualified - and by qualified, we mean "smokes in public more often."

[The Schneier link via BoingBoing - the picture via Jenny]

LL&CB: Baby names.

It used to be that when one became naturalized as a U.S. citizen, one had the option of selecting a name other than one's birthname without the burden of additional paperwork - a convenience no longer available to assimilation-minded immigrants in the post-9/11 era. In the case of very young children, this option was passed along to the parents.

I have the "Name Your Baby" book my folks used to select my English moniker - it's a little yellowed and faded, but clearly, you can tell which pages were bookmarked - and what's disturbing is the knowledge that I coulda ended up not "Theodore" (which is Greek for "gift of God") but "Melvin" (which is Old English for "dork.")

Something in my gut tells me that life woulda been considerably different had I been named Melvin, but I could be wrong; Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner have some science (well, economics, actually) to drop on the subject:

It has been well established that we live in an age of obsessive, even competitive, parenting. The typical parent is led to believe that her every move will greatly influence her child's future accomplishments. This belief expresses itself in the first official act a parent commits: giving the baby a name. Many parents seem to think that a child will not prosper unless it is hitched to the right one; names are seen to carry great aesthetic and even predictive powers.

This might explain why, in 1958, a New York City father named Robert Lane decided to call his baby son Winner. The Lanes, who lived in a housing project in Harlem, already had several children, each with a fairly typical name. But this boy—well, Robert Lane apparently had a special feeling about him. Winner Lane: How could he fail with a name like that?

Three years later, the Lanes had another baby boy, their seventh and last child. For reasons that no one can quite pin down today, Robert decided to name this boy Loser. Robert wasn't unhappy about the new baby; he just seemed to get a kick out of the name's bookend effect. First a Winner, now a Loser. But if Winner
Lane could hardly be expected to fail, could Loser Lane possibly succeed?

Loser Lane did in fact succeed. He went to prep school on a scholarship, graduated from Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, and joined the New York Police Department, where he made detective and, eventually, sergeant. Although he never hid his name, many people were uncomfortable using it. To his police colleagues today, he is known as Lou.

And what of his brother? The most noteworthy achievement of Winner Lane, now in his late 40s, is the sheer length of his criminal record: more than 30 arrests for burglary, domestic violence, trespassing, resisting arrest, and other mayhem.

Striving for our children’s futures begins, arguably, even before birth – tiny little baseball gloves laid atop pregnant bellies, Mozart played for fetuses in-utero – but, clearly, people are having trouble distinguishing between what sort of thing gives a child a leg up and what sort of thing saddles a child with unreasonable expectations (and what sort of thing gets them wedgies):

The actual source of a name is usually obvious: There's the Bible, there's the huge cluster of traditional English and Germanic and Italian and French names, there are princess names and hippie names, nostalgic names and place names. Increasingly, there are brand names (Lexus, Armani, Bacardi, Timberland) and what might be called aspirational names. The California data show eight Harvards born during the 1990s (all of them black), 15 Yales (all white), and 18 Princetons (all black). There were no Doctors but three Lawyers (all black), nine Judges (eight of them white), three Senators (all white), and two Presidents (both black).

Princeton I can see. Judge and Armani – okay. But Doctor? Lawyer? PRESIDENT? (”Did you track mud into this living room AGAIN, President? What did I tell you about that, POTUS? The mat is there for a REASON!”)

LL&CB: These links go out to all the ladies.

Stylish. And possibly illegal in your neighborhood. Then again, I've always thought those ultra-pointy-toed shoes that've become popular in recent years constituted carrying lethal weapons on your feet. So why not a brass-knuckle handbag, right?

If your fine-dining, cultural and sartorial health is just as, if not more important to you than your physical person, then it's time to forsake the apple-a-day and get some Daily Candy into your system.

And finally - as much as I generally dislike guy-bashing, these chumps totally deserve it. It would be sad, if it wasn't so funny. [via Lindsayism]

CHEKIT: Britney's unborn child returns email from the womb

Britney Spears' soon-to-be has a blog. The other day, it was returning emails during its stay inside Mrs. Federline:

Hey Fetus Spears!
Are you having fun being Brittany Spears unborn baby? I bet you get alot of people bashing you huh? Just tell them to kiss your fetus ass! Are you ready to find out if you are a girl or a boy yet? well I guess I will let you do whatever!
luv ya lots
Marlee

I'M AFRAID OF FINDING OUT WHETHER I'M A BOY OR GIRL. PART OF ME WANTS TO STAY AN 'IT' BECAUSE I HEARD OF THAT MOVIE 'IT' AND I LIKE CLOWNS.

I wonder if amniotic fluid interferes with Wi-Fi reception. Here's to hoping for more posts from our little friend. [thanks, Jenny!]

CHEKIT: Deep orgasm lift for Cara: Lara Croft film's a grope, Ed.

Hi. I'm Todd Solondz. You might remember me from such light comedy fare such as "Welcome to the Dollhouse" and "Happiness." When I'm not throwing domestic dysfunction and pedophilia into sharp relief, I'm performing fearless acts of directorial pyrotechnics - like casting eight people of differing ages, genders and races to play the same 13-year-old girl, for instance. Trust me - when you're through with my latest effort, you're gonna feel like you got it going backwards and forwards. Aren't I a HOOT?

CHOW [and BOOK]: Garlic and Sapphires

Food critic. While the study, pursuit and practice of the culinary arts are, clearly, worthy of scholarship - the words food critic still conjure up, in the mind of the uninitiated, an image of some haughty, tweed-spun dandied-up gastronome, complaining about the firmness of the broiled tilapia, holding forth as if he was discussing the wisdom of Patton's armored columns' advance into Berlin - instead of, as it were, dinner.

It's not like that anymore, for the most part (though if I ever get a hold of Frank Bruni, I'm gonna stuff him full of oranges and cilantro and roast him on a spit.) Take Ruth Reichl, for instance, who, for a time, helped make New York appear to be, at least on the pages of the NYT, a town full of miracles, served one course at a time.

Then again - who knows what food tastes like to someone who has lived like this:

Reichl, a former restaurant critic of The New York Times and current editor in chief of Gourmet, is positively abrim with delight at the life she's led. In her first two memoirs, ''Tender at the Bone'' and ''Comfort Me With Apples,'' she cast herself as the sensual, irrepressible protagonist of a swoony gastro-sexual voyage of discovery, a bountifully tressed free spirit who lived in a Berkeley commune, took extramarital lovers, tussled with her wacko but endearingly flamboyant mom, consternated the Chinese culture police by not wearing a bra during a press junket to the People's Republic and, all along the way, cooked and ate some seriously good meals.

Her new book recounts the many lengths she had to go to perform her duties as the NYT's front-line restaurant reviewer - and the toll a life of constant subterfuge can take. I know we're just talking about talking about a good meal - but hearing Reichl tell it, a good meal is a glimpse of something more than itself, of something akin to art that nourishes soul as well as body, and that is worth talking about - and enduring a lot of ridiculousness for.

Tell me more, Ruthie - tell me more.

CHEKIT: Jen joins the blogosphere

It was just a matter of time, really. By way of introduction:

it's certainly not ready for prime-time, and I may totally change it and do one with Jeff, a lot of people liked the he-said-she-said format of our travel blog. I will let you know when I make up my mind. but if nothing else, I have the photo snapped by the monkey cam with us in it!

Jen's one of us now. She hasn't bought the matching track suit and drunk the kool-aid quite yet, but she'll get there. She's already showing tons of promise with a fun post -

Remember those fridge magnets with the letters you used to learn the alphabet? What could be better than sharing a virtual fridge with a few dozen strangers. Fight for the letters you want, and hurry before someone steals the "e" you need to spell This Country Needs an Enema. Don't say I didn't warn you, though, when you glance at the clock and 3 hours have passed.

She's always been an ally in the fight against the forces of boredom. And now, she's got a secret virtual Jen-Cave, packed with an arsenal of linkage. My only regret is that she will now, inevitably, be keeping the best time-suckers to herself. Ah well. HUZZAH to you, Jen! To you, and to your monkeys!

CHEKIT: Bird. Plane. Whatever. He's a badass.

Over at the Internet Archive, among the many, many other cool things, you'll find three old-school but brilliant and beautiful Superman shorts. Folks who think animation begins and ends with Pixar should break themselves off a little of this. [via Screenhead]

HOUSEKEEPING: A request from Dispatches to all DDR disciples

You don't ever have to lie to me, baby. I know you and your kind. Singles in hand. Furtive glances over the shoulder, just in case anyone you've ever met in your whole life is in the Dave & Buster's. Or perhaps you're not ashamed at all, and you've got a whole crew in tow. Don't sweat it, yo. Those arrows point out to the rest of the world, the planet you're gonna conquer with your sweet sweet moves. It IS an uprising. And you, beautiful baby, are an arcade ass-kickin' Che-shaker. Viva la revolucion de la booty.

Dispatches is planning an extended series of posts about the video game Dance Dance Revolution. Send in your stories - about the scene, the obsession, the ridculousness, and your own enjoyable (or horribly ignominious) performances on the DDR platform. I'll be compiling them, and posting my own experiences right alongside. Thanks in advance.

(For the initiated, here's a video from DJ Format - scroll down to the "video files" section and click through. You'll recognize the conceit almost immediately - and laugh even sooner.)

MUZIK: O is for "oh SHIT, it's COOKIE MONGOLOID!!!"

I envy my NY pals - granted, I live in Chicago, where we get more than our fair share of up-and-coming brilliance, but often, they get to see stuff we middle-Americans miss - like a six-foot-tall punk-rock Cookie Monster, for instance.

Lousy with newly-scrounged links from the blogosphere, I happened upon Nick's journal of Gotham-brand student living - he digs the good tunes and the cold beer and, bless his heart, in a recent post, he put up pictures from a live show performed by what is now my favorite Muppet speed-metal band:

The Cookie Mongoloid is the blue and black sheep of the family that spawned that more famous cookie fanatic. Growing up in the shadow of his beloved cousin, watching the lovable good-natured monster rise effortlessly to stardom, the mal-adjusted Cookie Mongoloid grew despondent and bitter.

When in 2002 underground musician Loid Mongoloid found the Cookie Mongoloid, the gritty blue cookie fiend had hit bottom. Living on San Francisco's wretched skid row 6th Street on a diet of freebased cookie bits, the mongoloid was a far cry from the cheerful star of childrens television. Inspired by "mongoloid", Devo's anthem of alienation and mutation, Loid convinced Cookie to channel his angst and obsessive nature into a compelling musical endevour.

An all-star band was assembled: bass legend Carmella, guitar heroine Lisafer, and the inarticulate hockey-masked rock drummer Crumb. In an unholy epiphony, the childhood favorites of generation X were set to a scathing metal rhythm, and the leather clad Cookie Mongoloid commanded the stage. The legend grew, pyrotechnics and a harem of heavy metal vixens, The Cookies, pummeled the sugar-crazed masses with buckets of baked goods. Cookie Mongoloid now stands poised to conquer the rock world with their unlikely brand of deafening educational programing and cookie indulgence.

Okay, one more picture.

C is for cookie - and that's good enough for me, muthafuker.

CHEKIT: Slicing up Pi, and putting the Unicorn back together

As far as mathematicians go, Gregory and David Chudnovsky are like Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. Except more talented. Back in 1992, New Yorker contributor Richard Preston wrote a profile about them and their little project, their home-grown alternative to multi-million dollar supercomputing, m zero:

The Chudnovskian supercomputer, m zero, burns two thousand watts of power, and it runs day and night. The brothers don’t dare shut it down; if they did, it might die. At least twenty-five fans blow air through the machine to keep it cool; otherwise something might melt. Waste heat permeates Gregory’s apartment, and the room that contains m zero climbs to a hundred degrees Fahrenheit in summer. The brothers keep the apartment’s lights turned off as much as possible. If they switched on too many lights while m zero was running, they might blow the apartment’s wiring. Gregory can’t breathe city air without developing lung trouble, so he keeps the apartment’s windows closed all the time, with air-conditioners running in them during the summer, but that doesn’t seem to reduce the heat, and as the temperature rises inside the apartment the place can smell of cooking circuit boards, a sign that m zero is not well. A steady stream of boxes arrives by Federal Express, and an opposing stream of boxes flows back to mail-order houses, containing parts that have bombed, along with letters from the brothers demanding an exchange or their money back. The building superintendent doesn’t know that the Chudnovsky brothers have been using a supercomputer in Gregory’s apartment, and the brothers haven’t expressed an eagerness to tell him.

Recently, they were asked to tackle something a little less crazy than their previous nine-thousand-names-of-God enterprise - could they try to put some pretty pictures back together? That piece, also by Preston, together with the Pi quest, tell the story of two brothers, the people who care for and about them, and what brilliance smells like (burning circuitry, apparently.) It's some of the best stuff I've seen in the New Yorker.

CHEKIT: P is for Proust

Mike from ProgressiveBoink sounds like he loves Sesame Street as much as I know you and I do:

I watched & enjoyed the living crap out of this show far longer than I should have. It's become a part of me that I couldn't get rid of if I wanted to. I blame my mother. She teaches preschool, & as a result, she can often be found wandering around the house, singing her little preschool songs, at least half of which are from Sesame Street. And now, I've picked up this habit. Not out loud, but in my head. When I was doing the spring design, with the rain background, I had that "It's a rainy day" song as mental background music. Sesame Street has made a Pavlov's dog out of me. I can't avoid it. It's part of my subconscious now. I can't go food shopping without having "a loaf of bread, a container of milk, & a stick of butter" repeating in my frigging head. I'll be 85 years old, & permitting that my dentures are strong enough, I'll still bite into a cookie in such a way that it looks like the letter C without even realizing what I'm doing. And if that's my fate, that's good enough for me.

And even though it looks like Cookie Monster has got his blue ass into a 12-step program (complete with nutritionist), let's hope there will always be sunny days keeping the clouds away. [via BoingBoing]

CHEKIT: The French are odd. And that's okay.

Don't you feel, sometimes, that we're all taking things a bit too seriously? Maybe we should be taking a cue from the French.

CHEKIT: "You're a BAD hedgehog, aren't you, Sonic? BAD BAD BAD!"

Jane Pinckard, gamer-dream-girl, is a non-resident fellow at Stanford Law School who, in addition to being brilliant and cute, enjoys the occasional foray into non-traditional uses of video-game-console-peripherals (though you could argue that it's EXACTLY this kinda use that was intended.) [via Kotaku]

BOOK: Assassination Vacation

TAL-veteran and voice of Violet Sarah Vowell just came out with a new book - and if you're into Presidential esoterica (especially the macabre assassination-related kind) it's time to haul ass to the Barnes & Noble. Co-conspirator Sara Z caught her at a reading in Manhattan, and had many good things to say:

In Vowell's hands a ridiculous historical plaque leads the way to obscure but fascinating murders and love affairs. A teapot gracing her stove can be traced to a Victorian sex cult and back again to this week's episode of the O.C.

I love the fact that two of my favorite women in New York are named Sara(h).

CHEKIT: Pretty in Pink 2: The Wrath of Duckie

It's for real (thanks, Stereogum). And now I really wanna know how well Molly's held up (as an actress, among other things.) I'm hoping she's still retained some of that angsty hotness. And, while my friend Virginia thinks Andrew McCarthy is the goodness and would love to see him in something big again, I'm just happy that Hughes is back in the saddle. (Do you realize it's been almost 20 years since Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Holy CRAP, are we getting on.)

CHEKIT: "You have died of dysentery"

If the following funny bit (from brilliant shirt purveyors Busted Tees) doesn't ring a bell, then you might as well scroll past or wait for the next post:

You bought 1350 lbs of this shirt but you can only carry 200 back to the wagon.

However, if you suddenly find yourself wanting to caulk a wagon and float it, Preshrunk has a story and a shirt for you. [via BB]

CHEKIT: Storm the House

Trust the Kotaku people on this one - equal parts violent, frantic and zen, this game is addictive.

CHEKIT: Toddlerpede

Johnny Beinart's twisted creations look like they scurried up out of nightmares, seeking out warm boulders in waking minds to run across and bask upon (only pausing along the way to molt and eat a couple of plastic baby carcasses.) Thank God he works in Australia - I dunno if I could handle one of these things up close. [via BB]

CHEKIT: World Beard Championships

The minute I scrolled past this fellow, I went from total ignorance of the World Beard Championships to a feeling of strange admiration and slight disgust in about thirty seconds. That, and an urge to root our American competitors on against worthy competitors from Europe. (If Carson City 2003 is any indication, Team USA has got some work to do.) If I wasn't already thinking about going to Germany next year, I'd totally try to make it to Berlin in October.

CHEKIT: Cooler Clocks.

I know we've talked about clever timepieces here before, but the ones Roger Wood puts together aren't the virtual, flashalicious kind - they're like Cornell boxes - except a little more whimsical, though, in some cases, no less haunting. Not to drop the hard sell on y'all, but every one of them would look badass on your mantel. [via BoingBoing]

BOOK: Flub-a-Dub-Chub and the Sleepwalking Martian

Tracy Rosensteel's newest superheroes wonder about the same kind of things you and I do:

For two enterprising young superheroes-in-training, the world is full of mysteries. For instance, can dandelions really be used to power a superhero-mobile? What do you call a Martian if he lives on a moon near Saturn? How can one retrieve super-secret jet pack boots once they’ve been stolen by a prank-playing, fire-snorting rascal named Flub-a-Dub-Chub? And, finally, is it possible to eat too many donuts?

Or maybe not. (Except for that bit about the donuts.)

The author's going to be signing books at Marshall Field's on State Street this Saturday, from 1 to 3 p.m. And I know JP and Joe (along with some worthwhile charities) would think it cool if you (and any cool, book-lovin' kids you know) came and checked it out.