The No. 3 Pencil

I am completely flummoxed by the No. 3 pencil. I have one -- goodness knows how it even found its way into my life -- sitting in the pretty, orange Fiesta juice cup I bought at an antique store to hold pens and pencils on my desk.

It is a FaberCastell "Mongol" 482. Aside from its vaguely mysterious ethnic and historic ambiance--did Genghis use this pencil line to efficiently tick off the names of the towns his horde would next destroy-- it has a cool ferrule. But it is a hard, scratchy bastard in actual use and produces a super-light graphite mark on the page. Why would I want that? I am not an engineer. I am not a draftsman. I am not an 18th century Italian artist. I want a pencil that shows up. I want a pencil that is far less likely to be brandished as a defensive weapon. I want a No. 2 pencil. Full stop.

My idea of a stunning No. 2 pencil, should you be wondering, is the gorgeous and effective Koh-I-Noor "Mephisto" 465. Ahhhh. This is the pencil of choice for National Geographic Board meetings. This is a pencil deserving of the allusion to a diamond of great worth. It is a devilishly good tool. I have a cherished box of twelve (only 10 remain!) given to me with appropriate solemnity by a colleague at the Society as a bequeath upon his departure. I felt honored and genuinely touched and a little geeky that the gift mattered so much, not just personally but acquisitively -- I wanted my own stash. (I am not sure Koh-I-Noor even makes the Mephisto any longer except as a mechanical pencil.)

In conclusion, the No. 3 pencil: why? Just woeful. I'll keep the FaberCastell just in case Damien Hirst needs it, but I doubt I'll ever use the damn thing. That is all.

PS - If you are very good, sometime later I will bore you with my feelings that the Cristal clear Bic ballpoint pen -- blue ink cartridge -- is the supreme writing instrument and one of the pinacles of Western civilization. A man needs two items to write, period: the classic Bic pen and the Koh-I-Noor pencil. Oh, and another indispensable thing is "You I Want" by Tegan-and-Sara-sounding Jesse Thomas; now playing on iTunes.

Excellent Quotes: Ender's Game

My new doctor randomly recommended to me that I read Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, famous adoptive son of Greensboro, NC. It wasn't quite as random as, "Stay off that foot, read Ender's Game, and call me in the morning," but we got to her interest in SciFi pretty quickly. To be fully transparent, I was probably carting around The Windup Girl at the time (you know, on the off chance that I would sit for just a brief minute in the Kaiser Permanente waiting room).

In any case, as the loyal reader knows, if I read it, woefully for you, I inflict it on you. So, prepare yourself for a quote from the Hugo and Nebula Award-winning novella cum novel:

"It was a hot summer afternoon in Florida when they landed. Ender had been so long without sunlight that the light nearly blinded him. He squinted and sneezed and wanted to get back indoors. Everything was far away and flat; the ground, lacking the upward curve of the Battle School floors, seemed instead to fall away, so that on level ground Ender felt as though he were on a pinnacle. The pull of real gravity felt different and he scuffed his feet when he walked. He hated it. He wanted to go back home, back to the Battle School, the only place in the universe where he belonged."

- Card, Orson Scott. Ender's Game. New York (NY): Tor (Tom Doherty Associates), 1991. P. 158.

PS - I read the 1991 "Author's Definitive Edition" complete with a very engaging introduction that acknowledged its obvious debt to Asimov and explicated some of its intent and meaning for Card and for some young readers. Plus it scored points for self-deprecating humor: "It makes me a little uncomfortable, writing an introduction to Ender's Game. After all, the book has been in print for six years now, and in all that time, nobody has ever written me to say, 'You know, Ender's Game was a pretty good book, but you know what it really needs? An introduction!'" Oh, and speaking of science fiction, Ron Glass (playing space preacher Shepherd Book) is the unusual black man with a pony tail. And rapper Freedom Williams was a black man with a pony tail. And his '90s hit with C+C Music Factory, "Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)" deserves its own authors' definitive edition; now playing on iTunes.

Excellent Quotes: The Bourne Supremacy

Okay, I had spaced on the fact that all Robert Ludlum books--including The Bourne Supremacy--are woefully deficient in almost every category I look for in a novel. The movies, however, are so awesome that one tends to forget the defects of the source material. And since I spend a LOT of time on planes these days in desperation at a used book store I snagged Supremacy out of a discount bin and began what I can only refer to as a sort of personal literary Bataan death march. (I have real trouble stopping a book--I need to get over that grad school era commitment.)

In any case, and woefully for you, having read the damn thing and having survived it I am posting an illustrative if execrable quote:

"'This is Bourne. Put my wife on the line.'

'As you wish.'

'David?'

'Are you all right?' shouted Webb on the edge of hysteria.

'Yes, just tired, that's all, my darling. Are you all right--'

'Have they hurt you--have they touched you?'

'No, David, they've been quite kind, actually. But you know how tired I get sometimes. Remember that week in Zurich when you wanted to see the Fraumunster and the museums and go out sailing on the Limmat, and I said I just wasn't up to it?'

There'd been no week in Zurich. Only the nightmare of a single night when both of them nearly lost their lives. He running the gauntlet of his would-be executioners in the Steppdeckstrasse, she nearly raped, sentenced to death on a deserted riverfront in the Guisan Quai. What was she trying to tell him?

'Yes, I remember.'"

-Ludlum, Robert. The Bourne Supremacy. New York (NY): Bantam Dell, 1987. P. 145.

Can you feel the pain? Oh, the horror. The horror. Six hundred and forty-six pages of inappropriate italic emphases in the wrong places and for inner monologues. The monologues! He had forgotten the monologues. The visions of them came back to him in a half-remembered rushing blur. The book. The book, sucked.

PS - I want my $4.50 back. Oh, but while Ludlum is a best-left-behind relic of the '80s, you will still enjoy this thing called rap when you rock out to "The Power" by German uber-group Snap; now playing on iTunes.