Fun with numbers

As I've stated, I'm a hot mess when it comes to most things mathematical.  That being said, it's not that I don't like anything related to numbers.  I love geometry, for example.  If I'd had better teachers who didn't speak subcontinental English, I might actually have pursued accounting. 

One thing that intrigues me is numbers.  I find codes and ciphers exciting.  I actually study them, much to Karen's everlasting wonderment and chagrin.  Part of this is because codes and ciphers usually have pattens in them that allow them to be decoded or deciphered.  Thankfully, although there's some algebra involved, it's not absolutely necessary.

Today marks the fifty-first post in this blog.  I'm fifty-one.  No big pattern there, just a mere coincidence.

But the number twelve has always been my go-to number, my lucky number, my favorite number.  I think as a kid I read somewhere that quarterbacks favored the number, and since quarterbacks are the leaders of the team, and I wanted to be a leader, I chose twelve.  From such childish notions are lifelong childish behaviors born.

Then one day I noticed a weird thing.  Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub, hit his 500th home run on May 12th.  Again, not a big deal  But he ended up hitting 512 career home runs.  This is the kind of thing that fascinates me.  Sure, as Karen would quickly point out, it's a coincidence.  But it still fascinates me.

I looked up all the people born on the same date irrespective of month; for example, all people born on the fourth of every month.  My list has some impressive people on it.  I've looked up athletes born the year of my birth, 1961.  The results were eye-opening.

I look to see how many months, days, hours and seconds I've been alive.  I keep track of dates and see how they correspond to other dates with meaning in my life.  I see how mirrored numbers, like twenty-four and forty-two, interconnect in a given situation.

The mental gymnastics I do are just for fun.  I'm not like Jim Carrey who has such an obsession with the number twenty-three that he made a film about it. 

But just as a warning, my next post will be my fifty-second post.  My uniform number for our championship basketball team was fifty-two. 

Just sayin'.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

More can't do's

This morning Karen and I were attempting to fold laundry.  I say attempting because apparently the way I was taught was incorrect.  The way Karen was taught appears to me to have Zen-like mystic qualities that I am constitutionally incapable of mastering. Karen says it's a man-trick.  That I repeatedly try to fold the laundry the way she prefers and fail matters not.  I am, according to my love, trying to get out of it.

That led me to wonder what other things I'm incapable of doing.  Not things I can't do or won't do, but things that I would have no truck trying but find myself after repeated attempts unable to do.  I'm sure the list is longer than this, but here's a start:

Fold laundry:   No matter how my redheaded goddess claims it's a man-excuse, I fail to follow all the byzantine methods of folding laundry.  I don't fold it for presentation; I fold it so it fits in a drawer with no wrinkles.  But apparently there are as many ways to fold laundry as there are ways to call things on a boat by nautical terms unfamiliar to landlubbers.  Why towels and washclothes, for example, have to be folded in a particular way mystifies me.  Who knew there was more than one way to fold socks?  And the worst of all has to be watching me fold T-shirts.

Cook eggs:  I've given some thought to taking cooking classes and what not, not that I'd be any good as a chef, but the smell of eggs immediately disqualifies me.  Add to that the unofficial allergy I ironically have to scallops (both times I've eaten them things came out of different parts of my body at the same time) and I wouldn't make it past the first episode of Top Chef.

Play cards:  Part of this is my fault.  I find cards to be somewhat boring, so I don't play them that often.  But were I to try, I can't figure out how to strategize when luck has so much to do with setting the play.  Unlike chess, where the only luck involved is who moves first, the cards dealt are purely by chance, unless there's a stacked deck.  I'm not good with advanced math, so trying to figure out the probability that such and such card will be available on my next draw is beyond my abilities.  That, in turn, renders me incapable of knowing whether to go for three of a kind instead of a straight.

Read music:  I love music.  I can hold a note.  I can't for the life of me read music.  At best I know when the melody is going up or going down.  Sometimes I can even get the rhythm.  It amazes me how people are not only able to read this stuff but create it in the first place.  I sit in awe of such talent.  I'll never join their club.

Golf:  I'm marginally athletic, or used to be.  I mastered throwing a baseball, making it move in different directions, throwing it to specific spots.  I learned how to hit a round baseball with a round bat when the former was thrown at me from sixty feet, six inches at roughly eighty miles an hour.  I learned how to dribble a basketball with my left hand, in fact becoming more proficient with my left hand than my stronger right hand when dribbling.  But I cannot hit a golf ball sitting on the ground in front of me correctly.  I get lucky from time to time, but that's it.

Socialize:  One would think this would come naturally to a human, but that might be part of the problem.  Countless people have criticized my sociability quotient.  I'm awkward, insufferably boring, always ready to say the wrong thing at the absolutely worst time.  My sense of humor is so abstruse, or so I'm told, that I come off as aloof or condescending.  Suffice it to say I'm no threat to win a Man of the Year award.  Sheldon Cooper has more social skills than I do, and he's horrible.  He even uses the word coitus in polite conversation.

Ice skate:  Considering the tendons and ligaments in my ankles have the consistency of shredded wheat thanks to years of spraining them, any thought of skating is a non-starter.  As with music this is a shame, because I love to watch hockey. But unlike music, where I can at least hold a note, I can't even stand up on skates without the assistance of a walker.

Visual artwork:  I have to split hairs here.  I'm not too bad as a photographer, although I'm a complete duffer when it comes to manipulating F-stops and what have you.  I'm referring here to anything involving a pen, pencil or a brush.  Unless someone sees my inner Jackson Pollock, I'm a bust even when it comes to drawing stick figures.

Selling:  Unless I believe in a particular product, I can't sell anything.  I couldn't sell ice to an Arab.  I just don't have the persuasive power to get someone to buy something he or she doesn't want.

Acting:  Again, the art of persuasion here is lost on me.  I'd crack up if a scene called for me to act melodramatically.  The irony is that I have absolutely no problem standing up in front of a crowd and speaking.  But ask me to perform anything?  Not a chance.

Repair mechanical devices:  You'd waste less breath asking me to part the Red Sea.  Just trust me on this one.  Or ask Karen.

Diplomacy:  I had to look up how to spell that word.  I see too much black and white and not enough grey.  Heck, I even argue that the proper spelling of grey is not gray, but grey.

Pen-twirling:  I'm not sure what you call this, but I can't do it.  In school, kids that were either exceptionally gifted in math or science or went to very exclusive boarding schools all seemed to be able to take a pen or pencil, balance it briefly on the sides of their thumbs and forefingers and then twirl it around on top of those two digits without it flying off.  I've tried this.  I can't do it.

Spinning a basketball on my finger:  Somewhere Abe Saperstein is laughing at me.  No matter how good I may have been at basketball, I couldn't do this.

Algebra:  I'm not sure whether those who are good at this do algebra or whether there's a proper verb for what they do, but whatever it is, I don't do it.  I remember always being confused why x had to be such-and-such and constantly asking why, only to be told to just accept it.  Well, that didn't wash with me.  As a result, I never got algebra.  Someday I'll go into the whole Early-Eardley concidence, which is only sure to make Karen's eyes roll out of her head.

Whistle between my fingers:  I'm a very good whistler, in fact, but I cannot whistle by putting any fingers in my mouth.  Or a blade of grass.

There will be regular updates on this once my memory returns or more things are added to the list.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Voting

Karen and I got up at the buttcrack of dawn to vote today.  Somewhat surprisingly, there were around fifty people voting at that hour, with more people coming in as we left. 

I've always viewed voting to be a civic duty.  Given the freedoms we cherish and for which so many people have died protecting, it's an abrogation of a basic freedom to not vote.  Admittedly, I don't vote in every little municipal election, but I do vote in the quadrennial presidential elections and the mid-term elections.

I don't believe there's such a thing as throwing away one's vote unless no vote is cast.  That it's recognized beforehand that one's candidate doesn't stand a chance of winning the election is of no consequence. 

When one's lived abroad and seen what other cultures are like, it heightens the sense of freedom we enjoy in this country.  When scenes such as those from the Middle East are televised back here, with women finally getting to vote and almost gleefully holding up their fingers stained with ink to show that they've voted, it drives home both the sanctity and the obligation that is voting.

There are plenty of funny things that happen at election time.  Coming from a region where joking about voting early and voting often is met with a yawn, I'm well aware that irregularities can skew the system.  Seeing a Black Panther outside a polling place harkens back to poll taxes and literacy exams.  Votes should be cast without coercion or incentive.

That being said, I have no problem with attempts to verify the identity of voters.  I'm not sure that having a driver's license is the answer, because getting a driver's license doesn't require the same standard as getting a passport does, for example.  At the same time, many people either have no interest in getting a passport or can't afford one.  A national identification card is simply too un-American for me.  Biometric devices are probably cost-prohibitive as well.

Voting is as much a right as it is an obligation.  I also view it as a privilege in this society.  Too many men and women have died to safeguard this right for me to waste it by not voting.  So getting to the polling place at dawn is little hardship.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Spanish literature

Yesterday's blog prompted a thought that I've been mulling around for a few years.  The English-speaking world, while justifiably proud of its literary heritage, is unjustly disdainful of Spanish literature. It is so wrongly scornful of Spanish literature that it's even unfairly claimed credit for several things that rightly belong to the Spanish legacy.

First of all William Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest known author in English, is widely regarded as one of the most prolific writers of all time.  Yet Lope de Vega, whose major work is Fuenteovejuna, wrote over 1,800 plays, of which eighty are considered masterpieces. 

Charles Dickens is credited with many fine works, including Oliver Twist, a picaresque novel of the first order.  Yet it was an anonymous Spanish work, Lazarillo de Tormes, that created the genre.  Because Twist was later made into a major Hollywood movie, many people are unaware of the Spanish work.

The knight-errant novel is known mostly for the tales of King Artur and the Knights of the Round Table.  Yet Amadis de Gaula, a Spanish-Portuguese collaborative novel, predates the Malory work by nearly two hundred years.

Epistolary novels also originated in the 1500's in Spain.  The foremost work in this genre is the magisterial Pepita Jiménez, by Juan Valera.  The

There may be several reasons that explain the ascendancy of the English works over the Spanish works.  The British Empire overtook the Spanish Empire and had a much wider influence over a greater part of the world.  The British Empire also was a more prosperous and stronger empire for a longer period of time.  When the United States, one of its former colonies, grew so exceptionally, the fact that its major language was, ironically, English and not Spanish contributed to the popularity of the English works. 

Even after the reduction of the British empire it never bottomed out like Spain did in the wake of its imperial period.  After the Siglo de Oro, the Spanish Golden Age, Spain entered into a period of over two hundred years of tremendous and precipitous fall, only recently out of which did it begin to recover.  The United Kingdom, despite facing two World Wars, never fell as far as did Spain.

Since the inception of the Nobel Prizes, twelve Latins (either Spanish- or Portuguese-language) have been awarded the Nobel for literature.  Some twenty-two English-speaking authors have won the award.  The countries in which English is the main language consist of much more literate populations than those in which Spanish is spoken.  Nevertheless, since 1970, there have been seven Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking writers; in the same time frame, roughly ten English speakers have been awarded the prize.  Spanish more than holds its own with English when it comes to literature.

Spanish also has a rich history of being more cutting-edge.  Magical realism has brought to the fore such authors as Gabriel García Márquez, Isabel Allende and Julio Cortázar.  Greats like Octavio Paz, Camilo José Cela (who else would dare to publish a book called El diccionario secreto, a book dedicated to compiling the curse words of a language?), Miguel Delibes, Marío Vargas Llosa, Carlos Ruíz Záfon, Carlos Fuentes and so many others.

It's high time Spanish literature was given the credit it's due.

Pulitizer Prizes?

As I've noted, I read a lot.  To say that I have a problem that requires a twelve-step program would be insulting to some but wholly accurate when it comes to my voracious reading habit.

For that reason, I think I can say with some level of experience beyond that of a beginner that I've read a few books that have won awards.  From a conceptual standpoint, I don't understand how one can grade and reward art.  As the saying goes, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.  I think the natural extension of that aphorism isn't much of a stretch -- if the pun can be pardoned.  It's the same reason that I reject such putative sports as figure skating and gymnastics.  Neither activity is something I could ever do, each requires great dedication, training and skill and each is a physical endeavor.  But how can one person's performance be judged or graded accurately over another's? 

That being said, I've had occasion to read some books that have won Pulitzer prizes.  The prize itself didn't draw me to the books.  In one case, the provocative title and backstory did.  In another case, it was the subject matter itself that drew me in.  But once I read the books, I was left wondering how it was determined that these books were deemed to be the efforts most worthy of acknowledgement.

The one book that was awarded the Pulitzer that completely confounds me is A Confederacy of Dunces.  The title grabbed me from the minute I heard it, because I've often thought of situations in which I was surrounded by such confederacies.  But when I heard the fact that the author, John Kennedy Toole, had died some years before the award, my curiosity was piqued.  So I picked up the book and plodded through it, trying to figure out what the point of the story was.

Imagine my surprise when after reading it, I found out that it was characterized as a picaresque novel.  Having read the book that started the genre, Lazarillo de Tormes (no, it wasn't Oliver Twist; the English-speaking world has virtually no regard for Spanish-language books, but that's a diatribe for another day), I found there to be little similarity between Dunces and Lazarillo.  In fact, I found Dunces to be an overly-indulgent waste of time.  There was no point to the story.  A far more compelling story was the bringing to life of the book itself, with Toole's unfortunate suicide and later redemption with winning the Pulitzer for his formerly rejected work.  But the book itself?  A monumental waste of time, in my humble opinion.

And that last statement brings me back to the original point about trying to grade or judge art.  I may be totally wrong, a minority of one, about Toole's book.  It might be the greatest thing since the Bible, but it just didn't impress me. 

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Mitt

Another presidential election is nearly upon us and it is bringing out the worst in our electorate.  Perhaps Plato was right when he suggested that democracy was the child of oligarchy and would only work if every elector were a philosopher.  Given that some people are voting for the President because he gave them free cellphones, I think it's safe to assume that not every elector in this election is a philosopher.

Watching and listening to debate is both entertaining and frightening.  The one casualty of the discourse appears to be reason, as most discussions deteriorate into namecalling, shouting, talking over the top of one another and crazy analogies that have little or no relation to the topic at hand.  And I'm not even referring to the presidential debates.

Go on XM Radio and find a politically-slanted station.  On the Left, the discussion -- if it can be called that -- is downright stupid.  When you have the likes of Al Sharpton leading the charge, that's bound to happen.  But he's not alone, almost proving Plato's point.  The Right, although somewhat better in tone, has its Sharpton's, denigrating callers and hanging up on them.  It's shameful and hardly paints us as leaders of democracy.

But radio isn't alone.  Television is enlightening more for the omissions than the commissions.  The major networks -- ABC, NBC and CBS -- glaringly omit any mention of the attack in Benghazi that, if you watch Fox at all, has all the makings of a Watergate-like scandal.  Fox, meanwhile, is virtually apoplectic about the lack of attention the story's being given and demanding answers from the White House.  But supporters of Obama are indifferent to this media hypocrisy and their opponents' anger, to the point that Jay Leno joked about an inexpensive Halloween costume being to wear a Re-Elect Obama button and call oneself a journalist.

Social media is another eye-opener.  Again, given the virtual courage the ethernet provides, some will go out and thump their chests until either facts or numbers get in their ways.  One savant tried to defend the White House's handling of the Benghazi attack by holding up the mother of one of the murdered SEALs who criticized Romney for politicizing the issue.  When confronted with the interview the father of the other murdered SEAL gave to Fox, he disregarded it because it holds no truth.  When asked what exactly held no truth (The attack? The AQ connection? The deaths of the SEALs? The father's grief? Or the fact that Fox is reporting this story?), he engaged in a favorite tactic, tergiversation.  He never answered the question.  But he remains steadfast in his opinion that nothing untoward can be ascribed to the White House's handling of the Benghazi attack, and he's probably unpersuaded to vote for the President.

What's troubling about this is that political debates or discussions are little about sharing information or persuading the other side and a lot about shouting loudly and belittling one's opponents.

In 2000, I wasn't impressed with either George W. Bush or Al Gore.  I thought Bush was stupid and Gore knew anything.  What resolved the issue for me was that Bush knew he wasn't the brightest person around while Gore never gave me the feeling that he didn't think he wasn't always the brightest person in the room, and I loathe know-it-alls.  I hoped Bush would surround himself with smart people and he largely did that, although there were some notable failures and Dick Cheney turned out to be a far different Dick Cheney than the one who had advised Bush Sr. 

That being said, I am voting for Mitt Romney.  I'm not wild about him, but the other ticket scares me for a variety of reasons.  To get one issue out of the way quickly, Joe Biden is positively moronic.  If Osama Bin Laden said that they should take out Obama because that would leave us with Biden as POTUS, that automatically made him smarter than more than half the American electorate.

President Obama's big mistake, I feel, was in putting healthcare first.  The most pressing need facing the country when he was voted into office was economic.  That he chose healthcare over jobs shows me his judgment is flawed.  Perhaps he was trying to affect his legacy.  Perhaps he was playing politics.  Whatever his motivation, it was the wrong choice.

The President also chose wrong in putting so many resources into renewable sources of energy.  I agree completely with the notions of solar and wind energy.  But $90M???  And then to have several of those companies go belly up?  Again, his judgment flawed to some degree.

The little-noted meeting at the nuclear summit, the President told Russian President Medvedev to wait until after the election, when he would have more flexibility.  That is astounding to me.

Whereas former President Bush was rightly mocked for his speaking gaffes, President Obama is given a pass.  Not here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_AAMa_X2dM&feature=related

The Benghazi snafu is still unfolding.  It's too soon to know for sure what happened.  But what bothers me as a citizen is that the President and his minions are dragging their heels, obfuscating all the way, about what really  happened and what they knew prior to the attack.  That they didn't know everything all at once is forgivable, but what is unforgivable is to attempt to deceive the electorate by flaunting a story that they knew had no basis in reality.

In watching the debates, I was stunned by the lack of presidential bearing that Obama brought.  In the first debate, he was sorely unprepared.  I don't know if he was bored or simply underestimated Romney -- whom he had stated was known to be a good debater -- but if he's unprepared for a debate that could be instrumental in his reelection, what does that say again about his judgment?  How is he going to judge enemies of this country?  How will he estimate Iran when it has nuclear capabilities?  That's worrisome.

But what shocked me was the absolute rudeness with which the President treated Romney in subsequent debates.  I understand the notion of being more aggressive after the dismal showing in the first debate, but to interrupt repeatedly, misrepresent and condescend...I expect better from my President.  The President should be held to a higher standard.  He's an elected official.  He shouldn't behave as if he's on social media.

Romney may turn out to be no better than either Obama or Bush.  But at this point, he's a change.  This country needs a new direction.  I don't believe the president possesses the requisite judgment for the job.  I don't believe he's surrounded himself with quality advisors.  And he's made too many mistakes to ignore.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles

Questionable celebrity

Notoriety isn't something I covet.  I prefer to be in the shadows, always out of the limelight.  But there are people, whether because of their profession or because of some psychological need, who crave fame.  That's their choice and I wish them well.  But along with that celebrity comes an invitation to scrutiny that private persons don't necessarily deserve.

I've pondered this question when watching movies or television shows.  Sometimes I'll notice someone and wonder how on earth he or she made it this far.  I blame Jerry Seinfeld for this.  If he hadn't convinced a network to televise a show about nothing, these people might never have made it.  The following is a list of people and my questions about how they reached the limelight:

Jennifer López:  I know how she got this far, practically speaking -- she was a Fly Girl.  But like Taylor Swift, she isn't that talented as a vocalist, and at least Swift is a good songwriter.  Again like Swift, she can act, but beyond that her fame escapes me...unless we're talking about the dress:

P-Diddy/Sean Combs/Puff Daddy:  How in the heck did he make it this big?  I mean, aside from dating women who wear garments like López, for what is he famous? 

Cameron Díaz:  Another person who has marginal talent as an actress, but she's no beauty and doesn't possess any other discernible talent.

Andy Dick:  Anyone possessing that name either is a doofus for choosing it or a doofus for not changing it.  Again, here's another person with no discernible talent who's made a boatload of money.  He's not funny.  He's obnoxious in the extreme.  I just don't get it.

Bill Murray:  As a fellow Cub fan I probably shouldn't say this, but I really don't understand Murray's celebrity.  He tries too hard to be funny most of the time and when he is funny, he overdoes it so as to ruin what he's accomplished.  I know he's tried his hand at serious acting and he's done some credible work, such as in Lost in Translation.  I just don't like his schtick as much as other people, I guess.

Paris Hilton:  So if you're the heiress to a family fortune, make sex tapes and con a network into airing a reality show about your life, you become famous?  She all but gave Kim Kardashian the blueprint for how to make money without really doing anything. 

For now, I'll leave this list short.  There are plenty of others who deserve to be on it in my opinion, but I have a much more pressing task at hand:  How to cook snapper without ruining it.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles