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.

I'd rather my white trash ghost simply say Boo!

                The other night, The Dad hiccupped in such an aggressive and abrupt way that I didn’t know what was happening and actually reached for his inhaler.  When he caught his breath, he said, “That hiccup was so big it made tears in my eyes as big as a horse turd.”  While I refrained from speaking, my facial expression conveyed all that I needed to convey which he ignored and asked, You know what a hiccup is, don’t ya?”  Before I digressed into a clinical definition of said bodily function, he said, “It’s a fart that got lost!”

                Lately, when he makes any similar statement I have taken to looking to my left as if there is someone there to see me roll my eyes.  It’s not unlike the TV camera I always thought should have been but am now extremely happy was not there filming me for the reality show that is my life.  The Dad has caught on to this practice and asked who I was looking at.  I told him it was the ghost he swears lives in our house.

                While I do believe in ghosts only because I have seen one face to face (still not over that DeeDee Smith, thank you very much), I do not believe that my father has seen any specters in this particular home of mine.  A recent episode of Doctor Who solved the riddle of a ghost by discovering it was a time traveler stuck in a rift in the time/space continuum or somesuch quasi-scientific reason.  I realize that Dr. Who is not actually based on real science, I sure do wish I could have a closet that’s bigger on the inside because my colored chino collection is getting out of control, do you hear me?  However, as Lulu refuses to take sides in this battle, I have decided that there really is a ghost and she agrees with me.

                I can assure you if there were some supernatural force in the immediate area, the activity that takes place in and around my father’s bathroom would most certainly cause that force to flee to the relatively safe confines of purgatory or wherever they’re supposed to go.  Look, I said I believed in them, not that I had a doctorate in paranormal psychology or some other pseudo-science like physics.  What?  Physics is math parading as science.  I took it in both high school and college and still have night terrors.  Two pages of calculations just to get the formula before you enter the numbers to get the answer?  Madness!  Utter and complete madness!  Said the Journalism major.

                Of course when I mentioned to my father that I seemingly believed in his sightings, he began to talk about death and dying as many older adults are prone to do.  You have to understand that I have recently begun to realize that my Dad will be living with me until he passes on from this world.  I have already begun to acclimate myself to the very real possibility that I will forever be a bachelor because who in their right mind would want to marry someone with a 71 year-old belligerent and flatulent teenager?  No, really, who?  I need names, people.

                And with that thought in mind, I gave him a direct order as if he were an employee, that should he feel himself slipping from this realm, that he quickly retire to the yard as to not taint the happy feel of my home because I will never live, again, in a place where someone to my knowledge has died.  And Dee Dee Smith knows exactly what I'm talking about.  I love my house and do not want to move.  No, I don’t think it’s selfish and you’re rude to suggest that.

                The downside of his death, besides the fact that he would be dead, would be that, were it actually possible, he would come back to haunt me.  Of this you can be sure.  I would have history’s first farting, burping ghost who would somehow figure out a way to fry a steak on my stove just to keep it greasy.

                Because being haunted is not a father-son activity in which I would willingly participate.  Although, outside of eating and/or complaining about stupid people, what activity would appeal to us both, is beyond me.  Apparently, from the commotion to my immediate left, one of my father’s current activities is scratching his chest with his middle shirt button unfastened, like Napoleon, without the couth or the short man complex.  When he finished, he didn’t re-button his shirt.  When I asked why he was insistent on being unkempt, he said, “What if I have another itch?”  I can assure you, the Supreme Court hasn't judged anyone as much as I am judging him right at this very moment. 

                Seeing my look of mild revulsion, he sat and smiled like a cat eating sawbriars through a picket fence.  Yes, that’s what he said.  I asked him to spell sawbriars to ensure accuracy. Even I, with my fluency in redneck, several dialects of country and a passing familiarity with Mississippi-specific white trash, was unfamiliar with this particular phrase.  Apparently, sawbriars are a real thing, I binged it, and as you know eating any briar, saw or otherwise, would require one to chew very carefully. 

                And I truly don’t know what else to say at this point.