Books are my Football and I'm Still Tired

If you’ve ever wondered why I am so good at trivia, the answer is that I read, literally, every day; mostly non-fiction.  I throw in a little fiction here and there when my brain needs to take a break.  I am currently reading several books, because that is how I roll.  One of them, The Book of Answers (BoA) edited by the Reference Librarian at the New York Public Library, is from 1990 and is filled with the most unusual and entertaining questions patrons have asked over the years.

One of the seven books on my bedside table, that is about to be put into rotation, once I finish the hilarious You Can’t Touch My Hair by Phoebe Robinson, is called Jenniemae & James by Brooke Newman.  I picked it up at the thrift store for $2 and it struck my fancy as the inside of the book jacket stated, “James Newman was a brilliant mathematician, the man who introduced the mathematical concept of ‘googol’ and ‘googolplex’.  Googol is 1 x 10¹⁰⁰, which is 10 with 100 zeroes after it.  It was, at one time, the largest number used in math.  I learned this bit of trivia from my high school Physics teacher, Albert Wood.  And, yes, it’s where the name of the company Google got its name. 

                One of the things that I dislike is when I read something that is simply untrue, and I know it’s untrue, but because it’s published or said with authority, other people are then misinformed.  For example, when I worked at Blockbuster Music (remember those?), I was surrounded by really dorky, music snobs who loved to blather on about esoteric musicians Yngwie Malmsteen but have no knowledge of normal songs and artists that customers want to buy. 

One day the Malmsteen fan answered the phone, said, “No way, man.  What a crazy question.  I guess you lose.” and hung up the phone.  I was curious what question he thought was crazy.  He said, “that guy asked if Patrick Swayze (the actor) ever had a hit record.  He had a bet with his friends.”

I replied, “Well, he did have a hit record.  ‘She’s Like the Wind’ went to #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #1 on the Adult Contemporary charts.  It’s from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.”

He said, “Well, how am I supposed to know that?”

I glared at him and his ponytail and said, “You could have asked someone.” I was irritated mostly because that poor guy was right and he'll lose a bet because he was unfortunate enough to call when I was on a Dr. Pepper break.

Then there was the time that I was reading some pretentious drivel in the late 90s and the author stated that Janet Jackson had starred in the sitcom The Jeffersons, which is not true.  She was in the cast of Good Times, Diff’rent Strokes and Fame as well as her family’s variety show, but she was not on The Jeffersons.  How did his editor not catch that?  I almost sent a letter of complaint, but it was the 90s and I was too busy rocking out to No Doubt and Nicki French.  Well, not so much rocking out as dancing like a sorority girl, but whatever.

Anyway, I was reading The BoA’s section on Science and it stated “(Googol) first used in 1940 by nine-year-old Milton Sirotta…It was brought to public attention by Sirotta’s uncle, mathematician Edward Kasner, in his book Mathematics and the Imagination.”

That information struck me as somewhat familiar, so I picked up Jenniemae and James to re-read the inside jacket; I needed to confirm what I had read.  I confirmed what I had read.  I discussed it with Ben.  We decided, coincidentally, to Google the information to see what I could find.  It turns out that Newman and Kasner co-authored the mathematics book, but Newman’s biography lists him as the person who came up with the word ‘googol’.  At least there was a measure of truth in both books; not comprehensive fact but not untrue either.

I was glad that there was no need to contact either or both publishers to help them see their error(s).  Ben congratulated me on my arm-chair editing.  Books are our Football, y’all.

This must be why I’m tired all the time.  You’re welcome.

20 Questions, minus 12, plus 1

               Very recently, I am loath to admit, I was not the shining beacon of Christianity that you have come to admire.  No, dear readers, those who bore witness did not see Jesus in me, to be sure.  Now it wasn’t so much what I said or even that there could have been choreography (I believe some people refer to it as gesturing), there was simply a loosening of my self-imposed limitations for public displays of my unhappiness.  And other than the occasional forced wrangling of a wayward server at a dining establishment, I am usually free of anything bordering on pedestrian behavior.  And I’m not talking about persons in crosswalks.  Let me elaborate. 

                As you may or may not know, I am not a fan of bicyclists.  So much so that it sometimes causes me pain.  Now I would like to say, before you get all out of sorts, that I do not hate bicyclists, that would be un-Christian, and I even have some very close friends who are cyclists.  However, were I to come across them on their velocipede (because I am that guy) I would want to hit them…just…so.  Mind you, I don’t want anyone to die; I just want them out of my way and off of my streets.

                The main reason is I cannot stand the fact that they are selfish.  Allow me to elaborate again.  They can’t decide if they want to be a car and share the road or something far more nefarious and ignore stop signs and traffic lights.  At least the motorcyclists who weave in and out of traffic illegally state their obnoxiousness through loud tail pipes and ponytails.  All you see of those blasted cyclists are skintight clothes and weird little helmets.  For those outfits alone, they should be punished.  Because, I can assure you, no one wearing spandex should actually be allowed to do so.  Those who have the body to pull it off don’t seem to feel the need, apparently.

                But as I am a benevolent chronicler, I will give them a free pass as I have other questions to share, dear readers.  And some of those would be:

1.       Why do I get weird songs stuck in my head when I hear my father whistle?  And I don’t mean weird as in “did he make that song up?” I mean weird as in “why on earth is he whistling ‘Little Drummer Boy’ in June and why does it make me think of Janet Jackson’s ‘Black Cat’?”

2.       Why does my father ask me if I brought leftovers, specifically butter beans, when I come home after a Friday night Happy Hour, where I go to eat inexpensive food whilst my posse drinks it up?  Where does he think I go after work, the VFW Hut? 

3.       Why does he consider all of my friends who are not fat or a redneck to be a dork or a nerd?  And, yes, I have plenty of non-dorky friends, thank you very much.  Well, not PLENTY, but some.

4.       Why does he insist on wiping his spills on the counter/stove/table with his hand (not a paper towel or dishrag) and even then only half-heartedly?  Has he decided that the only way for me not to be able to remove him from my home is because he was literally stuck to the counter in the kitchen, like the tomato seeds and strawberry juice that typically reside there until I come home from work to more work?  Did I mention I walk to work?  Uphill.  Both ways.

5.       Why does he insist on sharing the murder report from across the bay (Oakland) and pretend it’s for our little town; acting as if this sleepy little haven of wealthy, older folks is dangerous.  It’s Menlo Park, for goodness sakes; a bedroom community of a bedroom community of San Francisco.  The police report in our weekly paper is filled with such breathtaking crime as random noise disturbances and reports of “suspicious persons”, which always ends up being a case of mistaken identity with either a new gardener or the housekeeper’s grandchildren.

6.       Why does he insist on calling my house, which is on the grounds of the medical center, government housing?  I know it is in the literal sense, but you know what he means.  And, no, I don’t know why it bothers me.  That’s a bit more introspective than I can to be at this juncture.

7.       Why can’t he remember that both the woman who cleans our home and the woman who cuts our hair (also in our home) are both named Clara and they are not, in fact, the same woman?  One is about 23 and pregnant; the other is about 50 and clearly not pregnant or even chubby but he can’t seem to tell them apart. 

8.       On that note, why did “Haircut Clara” say to Lulu, on her first visit to our home, “Do you smell my doggie on my hand?” as she offered her hand in a sign of friendship, like you do when you meet a new dog, and then proceed to tell us her dog had died thirteen, yes you read that correctly, years prior?  Is he stuffed and mounted in her den, I wonder?

 

9.  Why can't I ever figure out how to properly close a blog post?  

These are the questions I have.  If you have answers, please let me know.  And that is all I’m saying.