Oh, by the way, the Mason & Dixon sweepstakes is over for now. My good friend Kerry was the first to respond, but since she lives far away she suggested that the cost of shipping would dwarf the price of the book, and that it might be more cost effective for her to just buy her own copy. For this selfless act, I name her Co-Greatest Hero of All Time. Kerry, I will insist that they make a statue of you and put it right next to mine in front of the United Nations building.

The second respondent was Mr. Scott Pogue, and since he lives within lobbing distance he will receive the book free of charge. Don't fret, however, because he might elect to pass it on to some other deserving soul when he is done with it, and that soul might just be yours. (I also have a paperback copy that someone can borrow if they are worried that their soul might not be deserving.) I hope you all enjoy Mason & Dixon as much as I did!

  I played in my very first indoor soccer game tonight. I've played quite a bit of outdoor soccer, but this was my first foray into the indoor game, which is much different.

For those who have never seen it, it looks a lot like hockey. You play on a small field enclosed with boards just like a hockey rink. Substitutions are made on the fly, just like in hockey. There's even a three-line pass rule. You play six men on a side instead of the 11 in outdoor soccer, and the game is half as long. Oh yeah, and it's really, really fast.

I watched a couple of games beforehand to get a feel for it, but nothing could prepare me for actually playing. It's so different from what I'm used to. Outdoor soccer is like chess - it's a calculating game in which you execute plays, devise tactics, and try to outwit your opponent. Indoor soccer is like chess too, except that your opponent is throwing the pieces and the board at you while you flail around trying to defend yourself.

For me the beginning of the game was like being in the middle of an avant garde film. There were flashes of green (the turf), yellow (the ball), black (someone's shoes), and white (heaven?). Shapes moved swiftly past me and then were gone. I darted this way and that, chasing shadows, rumors, but I never saw the object of my pursuit. Occasionally I heard distant shouting, but I couldn't make out any of the words.

I left the field in a daze. I was exhausted. My legs were rubber, and there were sharp pains in my lungs as I gasped for air like a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat. Still, I felt as if I'd achieved something - my first half of indoor soccer was over. I was feeling good about myself until I looked up at the clock.

I'd been on the field for two minutes and ten seconds.

It was going to be a long night.

Thankfully, I remember very little about the rest of the game. We ended up losing 16-8 (yes, indoor soccer is very high scoring). I took two good shots, one of which was directed at my own team's goalkeeper. (Sorry BK!) I made a few nice defensive plays and flubbed several more. In all I played pretty poorly, but I don't feel that bad about it for some reason. I have a lot to learn about indoor and I'm woefully out of shape, but I feel I can improve on these things. I'll get better.

All I have to do is get up off of this floor before next Thursday and I should be fine.

  I Am The Greatest Hero Of All Time

So I went to the bookstore to look for a book. (If you must know, it was Atonement by Ian McEwan.) The book is coming out in paperback next month, so I headed directly for the bargain bin to see if there might be a hardcover copy on remainder that I could get for cheap. As I picked through the forest of cast-off tomes, I spotted a familiar face. There, nestled between a stack of Scott Turow and Steve Martini, was a hardcover copy of Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon. I gasped.

I bought this book when it first came out in hardcover in 1997, and it remains one of my favorite books of all time. Not only do I think the book is amazing, I find the physical object itself to be extremely satisfying. I don't know if it's the cover or the paper or what, but I just love holding this book. It looks and feels like something extremely old and important.

And here it was in the remainder pile for...$3.00? I couldn't believe it. This poor, orphaned book had been marked down to a tenth of its original cover price. I picked it up, and as I held it in my hand I recalled that the majority of remaindered books that go unsold are returned to the publisher and destroyed. Destroyed! I couldn't bear the thought of this beautiful object being tossed into the incinerator, flames licking its cover as the pages curled and blackened.

A great calm washed over me. I resolved that this crime was not going to happen. Not in my town. Not tonight. I straightened my shoulders and tucked the thick volume under my arm. I was going to rescue this poor book - three dollars be damned!

I strode through the store proudly carrying my new foster child. As I approached the register, I imagined the conversation I would have with the cashier.

"Oh my God," she would say as she saw my purchase, clutching her chest and letting her long blonde hair fall in front of her face. "I love this book! You are in for such a treat."

"Actually," I would say, casually leaning on the counter, "I've already read it. It's one of my favorite books."

"Oh, so you're finally getting a copy of your own. That's great."

"Actually, I already own two copies. An original first printing hardcover and a paperback."

"Then why..."

"It's not for me. I saw it in the remainder bin, and I knew what would happen if I didn't buy it. I just couldn't bear to see it destroyed. I wanted to preserve the book so that someone else might be able to enjoy it. I'm thinking of giving it to a convent, or perhaps an orphanage."

A tear would well up in her large blue eyes, and she would put a gentle, trembling hand on my arm.

"That is so amazing," she would say, her voice quavering. She would be so moved by my act of charity that she would step out from behind the counter and embrace me.

I would blush and say that it's really nothing. Not for a hero such as myself. She would take my hands and look into my eyes.

"I would be honored if you would come to my apartment and let me make you dinner. It's the least I could do for someone so selfless. I would also love to discuss the book with you. I bet that a person as kind and intelligent as yourself must have many trenchant and insightful things to say." She would bite her lip in anticipation of my answer.

"I would love to," I would say. She would embrace me again, and I would stride from the store with Mason & Dixon in one arm and Renee (for that would be her name) in the other. By that time the newspapers would have been notified, and the photographers would crowd around to get a glimpse. Renee and I would push our way through the crowd, and I would hold the book aloft for all to see. As we reached the car we would be met by Jimmy Carter, who would give me his Nobel Peace Prize, which I would naturally refuse. Renee and I would say our pleasantries and drive off into the night, hand in hand, leaving the madding crowd behind us. As we drove she would lean over and kiss me, and I would deserve it.

I awoke in the middle of the "European Travel" section. Apparently my steering had failed at some point during the daydream, resulting in a collision that left a dozen copies of "Let's Go: France" in a pile at my feet. I put them back in their place and continued my journey to the counter with a gleam in my eye, ignoring the strange looks of my fellow shoppers.

I presented my book to the lone clerk at the front of the store, who was disappointingly named Karen, and whose long, blonde hair was short and brown. Despite these inconsistencies, I assumed my nonchalant leaning position and waited for the accolades to pour forth. She looked at the book, and then at me. She leaned in close and spoke softly.

"Do you have a Reader's Advantage card?"

"N...No," I said, taken aback. She scanned the book's bar code and pressed some buttons on the register. She wasn't even paying attention to what I was buying. It was like she didn't even care.

"That will be $3.26. Do you need your parking validated?" she asked blearily. Her face was placid and stony. She looked less like the angelic Pynchon lover of my dream and more like a tired retail employee who was ready to go home. I sighed and gave her the money. She handed me the book in a beige plastic sack.

"Have a good evening, sir," she intoned, machine-like.

I smiled half-heartedly and trudged out the door. I would try to have a good evening, but it would be difficult without photographers, Jimmy Carter, or a young woman overwhelmed with my virtue.

As I got into my car, however, I remembered the sense of conviction I had experienced back at the beginning of my journey. I wasn't doing this for the acclaim. I was doing this because it was right! I was doing this for the sake of the poor, Pynchon-deprived masses! I smiled and sped off towards home and my overflowing bookshelves within.

In this spirit of charity and giving, I would like to offer you, my dear readers, the first crack at this. If you would like a completely free copy of Mason & Dixon, just send me email and it's yours. The only condition is that you have to promise to read it. The first person to email me gets it.

If no one wants it, I will begin the arduous process of identifying Seattle-area orphanages in need of American novels about surveying, friendship, and, occasionally, mechanical ducks.

  Hey everyone! I hope you like the new site design. Please let me know what you think! More changes will be coming shortly, as soon as I get the time to implement them. (Note that you can still sign up for my notification list; the form is now at the bottom of the page.)

  For a good example of someone who puts the atoms in the right order, check out Sarah Hepola. Her blog entry today is great.

  This was a lazy, lazy weekend. I think I spent roughly 80% of it on the couch. I watched a lot of football and took a lot of naps. Aaron came over on Saturday night to hang out in advance of his 3+ month trip to Paris, which starts on Friday. Sunday was more football and napping, followed by our very interesting book club meeting about The Hours.

Oh, yeah - I also finished The Hours yesterday. I loved it. I could have finished it in one sitting, but I forced myself to read only an hour a day, stretching it out, not wanting it to end. I felt like a WWII soldier meting out the last of his chocolate ration, or like Homer with his giant sandwich hidden behind the radiator.

Over the last few days I've been comparing The Hours to my other favorite book that I read in 2002, Gravity's Rainbow. On the surface, the two couldn't be more different. The Hours is simple, spare and effortlessly emotive. Gravity's Rainbow is sprawling, raucous, profane, and complicated; it is so monumental that it seems to have been engineered rather than written. And yet, I can't help but feel that they are somehow of a piece, in a way I can't quite describe. It's almost as if the former is an echo of the latter.

It astounds me that these two incredible books were constructed using the same words that are available to the rest of us. I'm sitting here looking at my dictionary as I write this. The Hours and Gravity's Rainbow are inside, every word. The dictonary is a two-inch thick volume of carbon atoms. Alone they are generic and useless, but arrange them properly and you might get something - graphite, or diamond, or fullerenes. There's beauty in there, waiting for us. All we have to do is put the atoms in the right order.