Because they have quality.

Someone posed the question to me the other day of if I were in Fahrenheit 451, what book would I want to be?

Aside from now wanting to read Fahrenheit 451 over again, I’m torn. My flat-out favorite, Grapes of Wrath (which has the bonus of also being a flat-out classic)? Something newer, like The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay? Something controversial like The Satanic Verses? What about a kid’s book like The Phantom Tollbooth or Tom Sawyer, since you couldn’t pass something like Ulysses on to the next generation of book-people-in-the-forest until they’re older and, in theory, you’d want them to develop a love of books, too? Should someone remember all the Golden Books so that there’s something to read (say?) aloud to the kiddies before bed?

And speaking of Ulysses, what if no one in the forest liked it? Does someone have to be responsible for remembering a classic for classic’s sake? Because I don’t know what I would do with myself if I had that book knocking around in my head the rest of my life.

Could I remember a few shorter books (The War of the Worlds, Of Mice and Men, Candide) instead of one long one? Is that allowed? Perhaps I'm overthinking this.

They've given you a number and taken away your name

At my new job, the clock-in procedure involves a fingerprint scan. You type in your numbers into a console and stick your index finger into the scanner, which reads the print, analyzes it and if you're not a spy, tells the gnomes in the payroll office to start sending cash toward your bank account. Sadly, it's sort of anticlimactic, since it just beeps and then you're on your way up the escalator to the office rather than a vault opening up somewhere and bad guys skulking behind you.

Granted, I've only done it a few times, so it might get old after a while, but every time I clock in or out, I feel a little bit awesome. I'm totally cut out to be a secret agent.

Mouse-gate update

The mouse is still on the loose. Somehow, it's willing to climb straight up the side of a two-foot tall trashcan to get at the Reeses wrappers I errantly left in there, but once I put the trap in the bottom, baited with the very same wrappers plus some peanut butter, it wants nothing more to do with it.

I'm feeling better about the situation, though, having watched a show about giant rats in New Guinea. (I desperately wanted to link a picture of these guys here, but with their being rare and all, Google's got nothing. So instead, here's another fancy fauna: the megabat.) Apparently these beasties are the primary source of protein for the indigenous folks of the New Guinean highlands, and what's awesome/fully creepy about them aside from their ginormousness is, they roar. Like actual roaring, like yucky little lions.

Thank you, Animal Planet, for helping me appreciate my teeny little city mouse.

Because candles just don't cut it...

From Slate.com via Kimbooktu (whose site I pretty much love):

“The sort of people who use book lights—book lighters, if you will—are not to be trusted. The device itself, remember, is intended for surreptitious reading. If these people have nothing to hide, why do they sneak off to a dark corner with their tiny, battery-operated lights? Why do they continue to read after their spouses have gone to sleep? What, exactly, are these book lighters planning?

I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure it's something.”

Now, I was always more of the flashlight-under-the-covers persuasion, but some of these lights look pretty nifty. I especially like the over-the-ear one: good for reading while lying down, I suspect, and especially handy for when you need to transition quickly from reading to spelunking.

Can't buy (off-season) happiness

Well, this is awfully dour. I’m optimistic though; the Mets’ bullpen pulled them through last year, and granted there are a few question marks (Duaner's ability to come back as strong as last year, no Mota at the start and lord knows what he’ll look like when he comes back post-‘roids, etc.), but still, there’s no good reason that they shouldn’t dominate this year again.

Plus, they haven’t lost any strength in the lineup, and if run support could get Steve Trachsel to 15 wins, that strength is a bit of comfort regarding the starting rotation situation. Plus, the upside of the Mets’ young rotation is potentially a whole lot greater than the Phillies’ known and largely less-than-spectacular quantities (except Hamels, who’s legitimately great if he doesn’t get hurt).

I'd be surprised if the Mets run away with it early like last year, but I’m excited for this season, even if nothing happens trade-wise between now and spring training. 22 days till pitchers and catchers report!

Steinbeck: Travels with Charley in Search of America

I love Steinbeck. I love traveling. And I particularly love dogs. Thus, Travels with Charley is perhaps my new favorite book. Honestly, though, it’s a great read and a quick one. I’ve always wanted to travel around the country, and what better way to do it than through the eyes of a really incredible author? (Although I’ll cop to initially being a little disappointed that he took his trip in an RV. I had an image of Steinbeck traveling Kerouac-style, but to be fair, he was 58 at the time, so I suppose I don’t blame him.)

Steinbeck sets out on his 3-month trip because he feels he’s lost touch with America, “lost the flavor and taste and sound of it,” and he hopes to reacquaint himself with his country. He takes along Charley, his blue poodle, for company. Overall, he paints a beautiful and respectful picture of the country and its inhabitants, but Steinbeck doesn’t shirk from the kind of insightful social commentary that characterizes his other works, and that’s what makes this more than just a fluffy travel book. His trip took place in the 1960’s, and his recounting of his experiences in the South vividly characterize the racial tension of the time; he makes no bones about showing the rough edges of the people and places he encounters.

Travels with Charley is a really worthwhile read, especially if you’re already familiar with and enjoy Steinbeck’s writing. It’s beautifully written, tells a great story, and if that weren’t enough, it has a dog who says “Ftt.”

Of Mice and Men

We have a mouse. It’s a house mouse, so it probably doesn’t carry any diseases or anything, but still: unwelcome.

It turned up a few days ago. I was sitting on the floor with the computer; something caught my eye and I looked up to find a little mouse sitting in my doorway, just staring. I lunged at it (what I thought I was going to do, I have no idea; this is an instinct I didn’t know I had) and it took off into my roommate’s bedroom.

An hour or so later, it was back and again, just staring. This time, I suppressed my urge to jump at it and just looked it in the eye. I sort of expected it to take off again, but it looked back at me. Mouse has an attitude.

Since it was late at night and we had no mousetraps, I rigged up a Rube Goldberg-esque trap of my own, involving a ramp, a platform and a paper towel tube with peanut butter at the end which the mouse was supposed to walk into, shifting the center of gravity of the rig off the edge of the platform and tipping mouse and tube into a conveniently placed trash bin. The plan was to catch the mouse alive and then turn it loose in the park, where it would be free to live a happy mousey life or more probably get eaten by a snake or something.

It worked, actually, but apparently mice can climb, so it just sort of fell in, ate the peanut butter out of the tube and climbed back out again.

Also: mice can be trained, it turns out. I reset the trap and sat and watched it this time, ready to put something over the top of the bin when it got in there. Mouse emerged from my closet, where he had taken refuge, looked at me, climbed up the ramp, looked at the tube, looked back at me, foofed out his whiskers, which might be the mouse equivalent of sticking out your tongue or perhaps giving the finger, and turned and headed back down the ramp and into Roommate’s room.

So, I got a real trap, but the mouse seems to be avoiding it. (Mouse poo all around the trap, but no mouse to be found. Nice.) Instead, it foraged in my trash can last night as I slept, which prompted me to jump out of bed and try to put something over the bin, but my wild sheet tossing and scrambling across the room tipped it off, I guess, and it was gone by the time I got there. Now the mouse trap is in the trash can. Success? We’ll see.