2 + 2 = 5 (No Rat / Face Cage Necessary)

About five years ago, I found out about a learning disability called Dyscalculia, which in some ways resembles Dyslexia, except that instead of being a developmental reading disorder, it makes it incredibly difficult for a person who has it to comprehend arithmetic, math facts, and anything to do with numbers in general, along with some fun “bonus” issues (we’ll get to them later.) After reading about it for less than five minutes, I not only realized that I clearly had it, but felt a massive amount of relief finally knowing that this thing I’d been suffering from since I was a child was an actual thing, and not just me being an idiot.  It had always struck me as odd that I could somehow be able to score perfectly on a SAT or GRE verbal exam, but score abysmally low when it came to the other half of what is generally accepted to be the basic measure of human intelligence.

To give you a good idea of what living with Dyscalculia is like, let me start by asking you a question. What is the bigger number: 4 or 7? Did you have to take a moment to look at both numbers and decide? And in the moment did you have to carefully think about whether or not what you were looking at was a 4, a 7, 74, or 47? Now let’s up the ante. What is 4 plus 7? Did you have to use your fingers to get the result or was it faster to do the work in your head, or did you use a shortcut you invented where you counted the four points of the numeral 4 and counted up from 7? Was it much harder for you to do because one of the numbers wasn’t an even number? Did you have to check yourself several times just to make sure the answer is correct, because this wouldn’t be the first time you incorrectly did simple introductory math. If you said yes to all of the above, and you are not in kindergarten, congratulations, you probably have Dyscalculia! You too can live the dream of being ridiculed by an eight year old for counting on your fingers.

You see, the basic problem is that when you ask me to picture the number four, all I see inside my head is a number 4. What I don’t see is the concept of four. I can recognize numbers, and I’ve learned to recognize that 47 is a larger number than 4, but that’s only because I know that there are two numbers in 47, and two is bigger than one. And all of that after making sure that I’m not looking at all the possible combinations of the numbers 4, 7, and 4. Point is, even the most rudimentary math takes me a lot more time to accomplish than, well, literally everyone who doesn’t have Dyscalculia. And it gets worse. Addition and subtraction is one thing, but multiplication? That’s practically algebra for me. Division? If I didn’t have a calculator I promise you that I would never be able to figure it out. It might as well be magic.

As you can imagine, having this learning disability made school hell for me. Once it became clear that my math skills were practically non-existent, and my verbal and reading skills were superb (to paint a picture, I read the Hobbit for the first time when I was six), the conclusion reached by all but one of my teachers from fifth grade on was that I was A: An idiot, or B: Lazy. Which is frustrating when you have to put so much time into figuring out basic math. I was trying, trying five times as hard to finish my math homework after breezing through the liberal arts subjects, but there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to get it all done. The only reason that one teacher (bless his non-judgmental heart) saw past this was because he regularly had me in summer school, where he saw first hand that if I had enough time, I could always reach the right answer. I think he must have suspected something was up because he would also give me partial credit for answers where I had transposed the numbers.

Tests were the worst. I would sit there, looking at the page, trying to make sense of it all, knowing that I was being timed, knowing I was going to fail because it would take me ten minutes to get through a single question and get a right answer on a test with thirty questions. Oh, and make certain to show your work! Having to fake that compounded the problem. And I had to fake it, because showing my work would essentially be me writing down the numerical equivalent of the All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy bit from The Shining.

And remember me mentioning being timed? Imagine wasting even more time while being tested due to one of the fun side effects of Dyscalculia: Difficulty gauging the passage of time. As an adult I am constantly checking my phone or a nearby clock to make certain I’m not running late, and I often show up for work or social events fifteen to thirty minutes early because I hate showing up late (a coping mechanism I had to learn to survive in academia.) And that goes hand in hand with any kind of estimation of size and distance as well. How big is it? I don’t know. How far? No idea. Close and far are about as sophisticated as it’s ever going to get with me.

Once I was finally out of the public school system, my academic life immediately went from being a shaky C level student to a 4.0, Dean’s List member. It was surreal. I found myself finally having all the time in the world to fully commit to working on homework that had absolutely nothing to do with arithmetic, and realized that without that extra burden of having to comprehend math, I was a mental powerhouse when it came to reading, writing, and analyzing information.

I thought my troubles were over. I was wrong.

Because you see, there’s life after college. And if you’re someone with a liberal arts degree when the economy takes a nose-dive, you’re quickly going to realize that there are certain jobs that are next to impossible to perform without access to basic arithmetic. I once, briefly, worked as a cashier at a calendar kiosk, and that went about as well as you can imagine it did. One of the managers actually thought I was stealing from the till, probably because I was handing people more money back than they had given me. It didn’t help that one of them informed me that I was being timed every time I opened the cashier.  After less than two weeks one of the managers passive aggressively rescheduled my shift in order to make me late for work (did I mention I hate being late?) and I quit on the spot. Which I imagine was exactly what they wanted.

Dyscalculia also features the major side “benefit” of sufferers having low latent inhibition. If you don’t have time to look that up, it’s basically the tendency to be easily over stimulated by sounds, color, etc. In my particular case, I cannot tolerate loud noise, particularly when it’s artificially being created by speakers or sub woofers.  Imagine not being able to attend a live concert without feeling like a shrill drill instructor is howling directly into your eardrums. I’ve had to flee numerous social occasions because a band has started playing. One incident ended with me screaming at the top of my lungs and abandoning a restaurant I had been waiting two hours to get into (and I’d already ordered.) I cannot tell you how many fire alarms I have literally smashed into pieces to get them to stop shrieking at me. Yes, I could have removed the batteries, but you see that would have taken too much time. It’s that bad.

And, of course, humans being what they are (delicious), few people will believe you when you try to explain the problem to them. I’ve told people I have a numerical learning disability (I naturally assume most people haven’t heard of Dyscalculia) and their response is usually: “No you don’t, you fucking dirty liar.” I can go as far as pointing them to the Wikipedia page describing the condition, and they’ll still pull the whole “Well, anyone can edit that, you know, so it must not be true.” I swear I could have the surgeon general tell these people that I’m not lying and they would probably conclude that I had hired an actor and dressed him up as Boris D. Lushniak.

The slightly kinder, stupidly well-intentioned response is, of course, “Well, I’m certain you’ll get better if you work at it.” Yes, technically, that statement is true. I have, in fact, spent a lifetime coming up with shortcuts and habits that make me seem as adept at math as a canny first grader. But, for all intents and purposes, my skills at arithmetic will always hover around there. Yes, with great effort I can solve complex equations. I’ve done it. The thing is, the knowledge of how to solve a complex equation doesn’t stick. I don’t forget the knowledge because I’m not using it, I forget the knowledge because I never really knew it in the first place. I can’t memorize numbers because I can’t even freaking see them inside my head. But I can memorize mnemonics, songs, the names of people (real and imaginary) and use those things to stand in for proofs, formulas, and numerical sequences. Unfortunately, that kind of complex memorized knowledge doesn’t stick around forever, the same way an actor will gradually be unable to remember the lines of a play he hasn’t been in for six months.

Somewhere, the noble native American chief Sohcahtoa cries a solitary tear.

So if you know someone who, like me, shows up 45 minutes early because someone told them that it was 15 to 5, and they were worried that they would be late for a 5:30 appointment, and thought that they had been informed that it was 5:15, please, go easy on them. It’s tough to be outsmarted by 8 year olds when you’re 36.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year . . .

Every year, the day after Halloween, two of the three radio stations that I listen to switch over to non-stop holiday music marathons that do not end until the day after Christmas, which means that every year I listen to about two months worth of Christmas music anytime I go someplace, especially if I'm not interested in what is on NPR (Dear Prairie Home Companion, you've had a good run. Can you please please end? Once, I loved you. Let me remember you that way.) I do this partly because I can be incredibly stubborn, and feel like I can somehow outlast the holiday songs by subjecting myself to them, and also because I'm too lazy to reprogram my radio, but the net result is that I have listened to a lot of Christmas music over the years. A lot.

Here are my thoughts about some of them.

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU: Like many of the best holiday jingles, this one makes me smile whenever I picture it being played in a minor chord, on a broken record player, inside of a house that you don't remember falling asleep in.

BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE: Of all of the many songs about sexual coercion, this one is probably the most heart-warming.

CHRISTMAS IN THE SAND: Lady, that's not Santa Claus. You're drunk. Don't take presents from old surfers on the beach. Get home safe.

THE CHRISTMAS SONG:  I would find it hard to sleep too, if my tiny tot eyes were a-glowing.

DECK THE HALLS: You know, I'd love to deck the halls, but I'm fresh out of boughs of holly, gay apparel, or a harp. And, dammit, don't just tell me about Yule tide treasure, give it to me!

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR:  I don't know about you, but if I was a little lamb, and the night wind started talking to me, my first reaction would probably be to piss myself.  And, if I was a shepherd boy, I'm not sure I would believe the words of a talking lamb who got his information from the night wind.

FELIZ NAVIDAD: Feliz Navidad. Feliz Navidad. Feliz Navidad, próspero año y felicidad. I want to wish you a merry Christmas. I want to wish you a merry Christmas. I want to wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart. That is the whole freaking song.

GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN: This is a pretty good one, but I've always found it kind of weird that this song mentions the power of Satan. It's hard not to picture someone throwing up the sign of the horns.

HAVE A HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS: Honey, before we make out, I want you to know that at least one of these kisses is from Burl Ives.

HAWAIIAN CHRISTMAS SONG: Ever since I saw National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, it is literally impossible for me to hear this song without wondering what Nicolette Scorsese looks like naked. Fortunately, due to the existence of both the film Boxing Helena and the internet, I now know.

HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS: Does anyone listen to this and not picture a jolly St. Nick sharpening an axe on a whetstone? Maybe that's just me.

I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS: Will you? Or will it only be in your dreams? Seriously, I need to know, because if I'm going to go through all the trouble of providing you with snow, mistletoe, and presents on a tree, you better actually show up.

I SAW MOMMY KISSING SANTA CLAUS: Later, I saw Daddy shoot Uncle Gary in the gut with a 9mm pistol.

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS:  I sure hope no one is actually buying their kids a pistol that shoots.  And those sturdy trees that don't mind the snow in the Grand Hotel and park?  They probably do mind being cut down.

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR: Besides its debatable premise, my main question here is this: There will be scary ghost stories? Why? Shouldn't that be reserved for Halloween? And when have you ever been at a family gathering that anyone brought up the glory of Christmases long, long ago?

I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS: Will someone please make the pain stop?

JINGLE BELL ROCK: What kind of breed is a jingle horse anyhow? And what kind of town has a place named Jingle Bell Square?

JINGLE BELLS:  Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg!  The Batmobile lost a wheel, and the Joker?  The Joker took the best of us and tore him down.  People will lose hope.  But the Joker cannot win.  Gotham needs its true hero.  I killed those people that's what I can be.  No, you can't!  You're not!  I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be.  Call it in.  Batman!  Batman!  Why is he running, dad?  Because we have to chase him.  Because he's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now.  So we'll hunt him, because he can take it.  Because he's not our hero.  He's a silent guardian.  A watchful protector.  The dark knight.

LAST CHRISTMAS: A song apparently being sung by someone with the emotional maturity of a child who is in the process of taking his ball and going home.

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW: Why do so many holiday songs sound like they're being sung by people who've had more than a few drinks?

LITTLE SAINT NICK:  I hate this song.  I hate it so much.  And, no everyone, it is NOT a song about Santa's genitals.  It's about a stupid tricked out bobsled that the Beach Boys invented to sell this stupid, stupid song.

O HOLY NIGHT: Nat King Cole is pretty awesome.

ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE: Dancing in a new old fashioned way? What in the world does that mean? Is this doublespeak? How long before Big Brother takes over? How long?

RUDOLPH THE RED NOSED REINDEER: Hey kids, do you look different from other people? Well, get ready to mercilessly ostracized. Oh, wait, your variance from the norm is actually helpful to the powers that be? Oh, okay then. Have fun hanging out with your former tormentors!

SANTA BABY: This song is bad enough in that it's message is rather sexist (women are materialistic and might put out if you are a wealthy toy maker from the North Pole), but does it ALWAYS have to be sung in that weird, sugary sweet manner that makes me think that the little girl who wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas grew up to be a gold digger?

SILVER BELLS: I can honestly say that not one Christmas have I experienced silver bells being jingled on a street corner. Maybe I live in the wrong city.

SLEIGH RIDE: I actually kind of like this one. It's got that whole "era that probably never really existed" quality about it. That said, you know that part where the whip cracks again and again? I always make a point of inserting a scream after each crack.

THE FIRST NOEL:  No L.  No L.  Seriously, no L.  We don't allow L in here.  I don't care where you put it, just get it out of my establishment.

THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: The ox and lamb kept time? How? Also, it's too bad that we live in a day and age when crappy drum solos are no longer considered acceptable gifts.

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS: So, does the person receiving these gifts get to keep all the people? Are we promoting slavery? And, anyway, who is rich enough to be able to afford ten Lords-a-leaping? And did you know that it was not until I sat down to write this blog that I ever realized that it's four "Colly" birds, not four "calling" birds? Who knew?

UP ON THE HOUSETOP: I'll tell you who wouldn't go up on the housetop and down a chimney with good Saint Nick: Me. Seriously, I'd break my freaking neck. And man, those gifts sound terrible. A hammer and tacks? A WHIP? Whose house is St. Nick at, the Marquis de Sade's?

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS: Demanding figgy pudding of strangers, and threatening to not leave people alone until you "get some" is apparently far more acceptable during the holiday season.

WINTER WONDERLAND: Gone away is the blue bird. Come to stay is a new bird. What kind of bird? A penguin?

WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME:  Don't know if it's the synth, or the incredibly repetitive chorus, but my Christmas time would be a whole lot more wonderful if Paul McCartney had never released this song.

YOU'RE A MEAN ONE, MR. GRINCH: The seawater crocodile, also known as the estuarine crocodile, Into-Pacific crocodile, marine crocodile, sea crocodile, or informally as the salty is the largest of all living reptiles, as well as the largest riparian predator in the world. It is not known whether or not it even gets sea-sick, but I still wouldn't touch one with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot poooooooole.

'ZAT YOU, SANTA CLAUS?: Hanging a stocking, I can hear a knocking . . . 'Zat you, Santa Claus? Ha ha. Hello? Anyone? Is there anybody out there? Ah, well. It's nothing I guess. Now, where were we? Oh, right, hot cocoa for two coming right up. Ha ha! 'Baby it's cold outside . . .' Wow, it really is cold. Let me just check- Oh. I could have sworn that I locked the front door. Must have blown open. And now the lights are out? Generator is probably overloaded. I'll just head down into the basement and check it out. Huh, something killed the generator. Yeah, no, it's dead. Hey, do me a favor and check the pilot light on the stove. Baby? Check the light on the stove, will you? Hello? Is that you? Are you okay? Who is that? Karen? Are you up there? I'm coming up there. Who's there? Who is it? Are . . . you stopping for a visit? . . . 'Zat you, Santa Claus?

Your Body Is a Duckberg

My main problem with the John Mayer song "Your Body Is a Wonderland" (besides the fact that it's the sort of vapid song that guy with a guitar at a college party plays in an effort to go to bed with a lady) is that I'm not entirely certain what kind of a connection he's trying to make. I mean, I'm pretty sure he's not trying to convey the message: "Oh, you sweet thing, your body reminds me of a heavily wooded underground monarchy inhabited by playing cards, talking animals, and mythological creatures, as imagined by a guy who may or may not have been smoking a lot of opium." And yet, that's all I can think of whenever I hear it. I mean, if Wonderland was not a well-known fictional place, and was just some term he coined, then sure, whatever Mayer, knock yourself out, but as it stands he might as well be singing "Your Body Resembles Narnia" or "Your Body Reminds Me Of McDonaldland" a comparison that I doubt any lady would exactly appreciate. But I digress.

What Do I Know About Sports?

Recently, I had a conversation about my general lack of what many people consider to be "common knowledge" regarding sports. As you are about to discover, it's a fair observation. I've never been very interested in sports, and though I've certainly seen some games over the years, I can't say that they were terribly memorable events. What I don't know about sports could probably fill up an encyclopedia.

But what about what I do know?

For the purpose of keeping this blog an accurate depiction of my personal sports knowledge, I will not resort to double-checking any of this information, so if there are any spelling errors, or outright falsehoods, I apologize in advance.

Off we go . . .

Baseball: Widely regarded as the national pass time of the United States. Also big in Japan. Probably a mutated version of cricket, though I don't know that much about cricket either. The rules seem a little complicated, but it's basically people hitting a ball and trying to run around a series of bases (arrayed in a diamond shape) before someone catches the ball and tags someone from the opposite team with it. Although, if someone catches it, the hitter is "out," so you basically want to either hit the ball so hard that it goes out of bounds (a "home run", unless it goes the wrong way, which is called a "foul") or do something weird, like not hit it very hard (this is called "bunting") and run to first base before someone tags you with it, or throws the ball to the guy standing on first base. Cheating is actually encouraged, so if you can run to a base while the pitcher's not paying attention, you can get away with it. Except not from home plate. Like I said, it's weirdly complicated. Baseball teams are based out of cities, but there are clearly different levels of competition, as I've never seen the Syracuse team (I think they're either the Chiefs or the Sky-Chiefs, but maybe they've changed their name to something totally different while I wasn't paying attention) play the New York Yankees. The Red Socks are based out of Boston, and they and the Yankees hate each other's guts. Or at least, their fans do. The Red Socks broke a long losing-streak several years ago, and people were excited about it. There's another team with a long-losing streak, but I don't know who they are. The Cubs, maybe? That sounds right, at any rate. Babe Ruth was a baseball player. Also, Ty Cobb. Also . . . Derek Jeter. Hmmm. Oh, also, there was a scandal in 1919 when eight of the White Socks threw the World Series (whatever that is.) And one of those guys was Shoeless Joe Jackson, and some kid was like, "Say it ain't so, Joe." And I imagine that made Mr Jackson very sad.

Basketball: Two teams run back and forth and put a ball through a relatively high hoop, either by jumping up and tossing the ball in, or "shooting" it with their hands. You're allowed to block these attempts, but not too much, and you're not supposed to touch the other players, I think. If you knock them down, that is a "foul" and then the other team gets to get some free shots at the basket. You get more points if you shoot the ball farther from the hoop, but I think the most you can score on a single "basket" is three points. There's a lot of scoring in basketball, and people seem to enjoy that. Teams are based out of cities. The Bulls are from Chicago. There's a team called the Celtics, but no one pronounces their name correctly. Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley (sp?) are basketball players. Also, Shaquille O'Neil. Oh, and Kareem Abdul Jabbar (thanks Airplane!) and . . . Larry Bird. And Lebron James, who's actually a pretty good actor. I also only know who these people are due to commercials and movies. Anyhow, most people seem to be more interested in College Basketball, especially in Syracuse. Our team is the Orangemen, and one time, while I was out of town, we won a championship and people kind of lost it and started tearing down trees and guys in riot gear were sent in to break it up. St. Bonaventure's team is called the Bonnies, but I only know that because that's where my friend Pete went to school. The Harlem Globetrotters are not a real team, but I'm not really sure where they fit in. I think they just go around the country putting on exposition games against a fake team of really white guys, who we're supposed to hate. I guess it's kind of like professional wrestling, but with more basketball.

Boxing: Two guys beat each other in a ring until one of them gets knocked out, or is just so battered and confused (or tired of being hit) that they don't get up after ten seconds. The boxers wear gloves, which is supposed to soften the blows, but I think it causes more brain damage because of how the hits are absorbed by the head. You can't punch below the belt. There are occasionally breaks in the fighting to give the boxers time to cool down and have their wounds tended to. Jake LaMotta was a boxer (thanks Raging Bull!) Mike Tyson was/is a boxer, and was famous enough to be the end boss of the NES game Punch-Out, but then he went kind of nuts and bit off part of someone's ear (Evander Holyfield, I think) and I don't even know if he boxes anymore. He does have pet tigers though.

Fencing: This is basically two people fighting with swords, which is no where near as cool as it should be. The participants wear a lot of white protective gear, which de-humanizes them to the point where they might as well be robots, and the bouts tend to be very very quick. The goal is simply to touch your opponent with the tip of your sword, which are blunt and, I think, have electronic sensors in them, so they're not slashing and hacking at each other, or kicking over big candelabras, or, you know, dueling the way people do in the movies. Oh, also, the swords are called "foils."

Football: A game where two teams attempt to get a oddly shaped ball into the opposing team's "end-zone," usually by throwing, catching, or running with it while people try to knock each other down. You can kick the ball through a goal, but it's not worth as many points. It probably derived from Rugby, though I don't know enough about that sport to make comparisons. People get seriously injured during this game, but, unlike hockey, actual fighting is not allowed. Football is probably only played in America. Teams generally seem to be based out of cities, but some seem to be from regions. The New England Patriots, for instance, are probably from Boston, but I'm not sure. Both the Giants and the Jets are from New York City, though I don't think they ever play each other. The Bills are from Buffalo, NY, and their name is a reference to a guy who made a name for himself shooting tons of actual buffalos in the mid-west. The Cowboys are from Dallas. The Dolphins are from Miami. The Eagles are from Philadelphia. The Ravens are from Baltimore (and I only know that because of my interest in Edgar Allen Poe.) There's also the Rams, the Steelers, the Vikings, and the, um, Raiders, but I don't know where they're from. There might be a team called the Buccaneers, but that might be another sport. There seem to be a lot of shady characters in Football, and people always seem to be making terrible career moves by shooting themselves in the leg, participating in dog-fighting, or actually murdering people. Joe Namath was a football player, but I get the feeling that was a long time ago. Also, Dan Marino, who played for the Dolphins (thanks Ace Ventura!) And who could forget O. J. Simpson? There's some other people too, but I have a hard time remembering their names, despite the fact that some of them are called Plaxico and Bulger. Matt Bulger? It's something like that. There's a guy called Brett Favre whose last name is pronounced "Farv," and people talk about him like he's a super villain. I think it's because he kept retiring and then coming back to the game, but it might also be because he played for different teams. I'm not sure. The big championship game everyone is trying to get to is called the Super Bowl, which is always on a Sunday, and is usually when you can see a lot of interesting commercials. There's usually a pretty big act playing during the midway point of the game (half-time, yes?) There's also a Rose Bowl and a Sugar Bowl, but I don't know who plays in those, or why. There's also the puppy bowl, but that's just an excuse to watch cute dogs play with toys.

Golf: People attempt to put small white balls into holes in the ground on a very well manicured lawn. The less you have to swing at the ball, the better you are. People are always saying "golf is a game you play against yourself." Golf is a Scottish sport, and is usually played by affluent people. I think this is because you can only really play golf at a golf club, and the club probably needs to be fairly wealthy in order to afford the maintenance that a large series of well-groomed lawns requires. There are a lot of different clubs, with names like Five-Iron, but damned if I know what the difference is between them. I do know the putter is used to gently knock the ball into the hole when you've gotten that close, but it always seems like people are narrowly missing, and then the crowd groans. Speaking of crowds, you're supposed to keep quiet when you are watching golf. You can't heckle the players or cheer them on. Even when they win the response is usually pretty tame. I assume golf is a summer sport, since it has to be played outside, and I've never seen anyone contending with snow. Tiger Woods is golfer, and was once well-liked, but then he had an affair and his reputation suffered. There's also that guy, who I always want to called Jack Nicholson. You know who I mean, the guy who has a brand of half and half? Nicholas? Jack Nicholas? Is that right?

Hockey: Two teams attempt to put a hard disc (a "puck") into the opposing teams goal. With sticks. While skating on ice. Smashing into other players is allowed, sort of, but penalized. If you start fighting with another player, people won't break it up until one of you falls down. Since people are always being penalized and put into a sort of holding area, you can end up with teams that aren't the same size, giving one team a big advantage. As a result of all the violence, and the very real possibility of being hit in the face by the puck, Hockey players tend to have missing teeth. Wayne Gretsky was a hockey player. Syracuse's local team is called the Crunch, and our mascot is either a superhero wearing shades or a rabid panda that people call "the ice gorilla." I think I saw a game where the opposing team was called the Sea Barons, and their mascot was a shark wearing a top hat and monocle. I also saw a game that started off with a all-out brawl, much like the ending of Slap Shot. I kind of like hockey.

Horse-Racing: A bunch of really little guys race horses around a ellipse-shaped track, usually on horseback, but also sometimes in a little cart that the horse is pulling. To the best of my knowledge, only men ride the horses. Which seems odd, because you'd think women would be lighter than men. Although the men (called jockeys) are pretty small dudes. This sport is popular with gamblers, who have all sorts of different bets running on who is going to win, place, show, etc. Winning is self-explanatory, placing is coming in first and second, and showing is coming in first, second, or third. There's also "exotic" bets like trifectas and boxes, where you have to guess in what order the horses finish, and so on. Can you tell I've actually watched (and betted on) a few horse races in my life? Due to the gambling element, and the cost of competing, there's a lot of fishy stuff going on in horse racing, like guys purposely reining in their steeds, and drug use (both human and equine), and apparently all lot of the jockeys are more than a little rough around the edges. It's also bad news when a horse takes a fall during a race; usually, if they break a leg, the horse is put down. The big show in America is the Kentucky Derby, which is a pretty showy affair- people dress up in ascots and My Fair Lady style hats and all. The British have the Gold Cup, which a lot of people call Ascot, though I'm not really sure why. Famous race horses that I know the names of: Cigar, Seabiscuit, Man of War, and Secretariat. My mom really likes horse racing.

Soccer: Also called "Football" outside of the United States. The game involves two teams attempting to put a spotted ball into the opposing team's goal, which is a fairly large net with a frame. You are not allowed to use your hands, unless you're the goalie or are throwing the ball back into game from "out of bounds," so this generally involves a lot of footwork. It's a generally low scoring game, which Americans don't like, apparently. The rest of the world seems to be big fans of soccer. Every some odd years there's a championship game called the world cup that features teams representing countries. South American teams seem to be regarded as very good. Soccer fans are also notoriously violent, and people tend to get crushed to death during soccer riots. I don't know any soccer player's names, but I do know that women seem to find soccer players very attractive, so they've got that going for them.

Tennis: Two people knock a ball back and forth with racquets, over a net, trying to get it (the ball) to land somewhere in the other person's zone (?) at least once. Hitting the net, even just a bit, is a no-no, but I'm not sure what the penalty is for doing so. The scoring is really weird. Rather than just say, 3 to 1 or whatever, the judges call out things like "15-Love," and damned if I know what any of it means. It's probably because this sport is so ridiculously old, and it's some leftover scoring system from the Renaissance, or something. The gaming area is called a court, for likely the same reason. Tennis players, men and women both, seem to grunt or scream a lot during this sport, especially when they're hitting the ball. They also tend to get into heated arguments with the ref, who sits really high so he can see the game. Billie Jean King is a tennis player who once played against, and beat (I assume!) an unapologetic sexist male tennis player. There's also Maria Sharipova (sp?), who I mainly know for being blonde and attractive, and camera endorsing. There seem to be a lot of attractive female tennis players, actually. Oh, and Andre Agassi! Andre used to have super 80's hair, but then he shaved it all off, probably because he started going bald. I mainly know who he is due to a skit called Advantage Agassi from the Ben Stiller Show.

Bold Deduction Never Fails, That's For Certain

So, have you ever noticed how many fictional serial killers seem to be hyper-literate, to the point that they all feel the need to base their murders on the works of Chaucer, Shelley, or Marcus Aurelius? Just once I'd like to see the following:

Captain - So, let's recap gentlemen. What have we got so far?

Detective 1 - The first victim was killed during a hurricane, the second during a drag race.

Detective 2 - And the third was found cut apart by an industrial laser . . .

Beat Cop (bursting in) - Captain! Captain! A body's been found on an abandoned airstrip off of route 57. We're not sure but it look like he was decapitated by a propeller.

Detective 1 - Oh my god. It's Duck Tales. He's copying the theme song to Duck Tales!

Captain - Officer! I want every squad car we've got to head out to Miller's Pond right now! Heaven help us, I think we might just have a duck blur on our hands . . .

Buy My Book

Dear Everyone I Know,

So, I normally find self promotion to be rather distasteful, but I suppose in a post with the title "Buy My Book", there's really no way around it . . .

Here's the scoop: Though it will probably be at least a month or two before my book is available through Barnes and Noble, Amazon.com, etc., it is- as of TODAY- currently available (with a 10% discount!) through Lulu.com, the company that is handling the print-on-demand aspect of its publication. To find it just go to Lulu.com and type my name (or the title, Reynard the Fox) into the search engine and voila!, that's my book!

If you plan on picking it up, I highly recommend buying it through Lulu.com- it’s not only cheaper, but I also get a significantly larger slice of the revenue from the sale when B&N / Amazon aren’t involved. Also, be aware that the .99 cent version is only a file download, which I get one solitary cent of, and aren’t books more fun to read when you can hold them in your hand and turn pages, right? Right?

I imagine that my book may not be to everyone’s taste (there's a brief synopsis on lulu.com if you are curious), but even if you have no interest in fencing, fighting, torture, monsters, chases, escapes, etc. I still ask that you think about picking a copy up. You may find yourself pleasantly surprised, and even if- heaven forbid- you never read a word of it you will have helped me immensely by adding to my sales numbers. And, hey, you can always set it on your coffee table and smugly tell your friends that you know a published author . . .

One final request: if you do read and enjoy my book, please please please recommend it to other people. I can (and will) go to countless signings to help promote it, but ultimately word of mouth is the best way for this thing to get noticed. I’d love to get picked up by a larger imprint, but that’s not going to happen unless people I don't even know start buying it. So if you like it, please let someone else know!

Hope you enjoy it!

Sincerely,

Dave

Middle Earth 911

Dispatcher: 911. What is the nature the nature of your emergency?

Caller: They have taken the bridge . . . and the second hall . . .

Dispatcher: Excuse me?

Caller: We have barred the gates- but cannot hold them for long.

Dispatcher: Alright, sir, where are you calling from?

Caller: The ground shakes . . . drums in the deep . . . We cannot get out . . .

Dispatcher: Sir, are you trapped somewhere? Are you hurt? Has there been an earthquake?

Caller: A shadow moves in the dark.

Dispatcher: Sir, are you currently intoxicated?

Caller: We cannot get out . . .

Dispatcher: Are there other people there with you, sir?

Caller: They are coming.

Dispatcher: Who is coming? Sir? Sir? Hello?

(there is some sort of commotion on the other end of the line)

Caller: Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!

Dispatcher: Sir, has someone been injured? Hello? Is anyone there?

Voice In the Background: Mr Frodo!

Dispatcher: Sir? Is that a member of your party?

Voice In the Background: Orcs!

Voice In the Background: Get back! Stay close to Gandalf!

Dispatcher: Sir, are you in any danger? Sir?

Voice In the Background: They have a cave troll!

Dispatcher: Alright, sir, we're ready to contact a deputy to send to your location- but I'm going to have to ask for-

Voice In Background: Let them come! There is one Dwarf in Moria that still draws breath!

(Line Goes Dead)

A patrol car was later sent to the Kazad-Dum, but despite obvious signs of a altercation between an adventuring band and a local gang of orcs, no signs of the caller or his companions has yet surfaced.