It’s official: I’m not allowed to go running on trash pick-up day in Brooklyn anymore. There’s just too much good stuff and too little room in my home. Wednesday, I spotted sweet stack of 1975 Jacques Cousteau books less than a mile from the start of my run, but had to lug them back to my kitchen for cleaning and disinfection (I suggest freezing all books from the trash). They’re wonderfully informative though typographically schizophrenic (is that Helvetica AND Futura?). Each volume has its 1970s charm and is not necessarily for children (Volume 1 refers to the dolphin as the “playboy” of the ocean). While I’m sure all of this information lives on the internet, I doubt I would have initiated a Google search on “the dancing cod.” For now, New York’s garbage is my Wikipedia random article button.