I'm drawn to gadflies, iconoclasts, and intelligent heretics. I've heard that Sam Harris, author of Letter to a Christian Nation, is the last, but after admittedly only browsing his book, I found him to be a simplistic and mean-spirited little man.

I was likewise disappointed when I thumbed through Mark Steyn's new book, America Alone. Steyn's columns usually sizzle, and there's a depth to his thinking, but his current book looks like it was dashed off by a Bill O'Reilly aide, translated into German and then back into English, and then direct-marketed to Rush Limbaugh junkies. A real shame, because his thoughts on Islam's slow conquest of Europe are fascinating.

My favorite heretic right now is Henry Mintzberg, whose Managers Not MBA's is absolutely delightful. Here's a quote: "trying to teach management to someone who has never managed is like trying to teach psychology to someone who has never met another human being."

Why so torqued up about books, you ask? Why this extra-special bonus post on SitG? Because my woman and I have a date tonight. We're going to dinner, and then to the book store. I'm giddy. I already know what I'm getting, too: Michael Lewis's Blind Side, wherein he does for football what he did for baseball in his outstanding Moneyball.

Can't. Hardly. Wait.

Was that last sentence too girly? Don't care. I've wrung my hands here more than once about the decline of reading in America, but here's a little side benefit: it leaves more books for Tony.