My home bookshelves have runneth over since I started working at LJ in 1998. This, as many of my friends and relatives have pointed out, is one of those good problems to have: what to do with tens of pounds of beauteous converted pulp, all lovingly stockpiled under, on top of, and around my desk. The cons: My books don’t always fit so well in my Brooklyn apartment; sometimes, a poorly placed tome has come close to causing a serious accident (broken ankles, anyone?). My cat, Cleo, however, loves the bounty. A fat dictionary doubles as a kind of scratching post and a bed. Of course, I always have something excellent to read when I’m burned out on a book (see Half Reads Nearly Finished) or a trashy women’s magazine. Just last night, I couldn’t help but congratulate my bad self on the holdings of the shelf that sits next to my bed. This is where the music literature is at, from Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life and Henry Rollins’s Get in the Van to Alyn Shipton’s A New History of Jazz and Toure’s Never Drank the Kool-Aid. I wasn’t that surprised to realize that I hadn’t read about a quarter of the titles. Will this force me to refrain from acquiring more free booty from my job? I think you know the answer, and the proof is in my work cabinet, freshly stuffed with, among other hardcovers, Zadie Smith’s On Beauty.