Sunday, March 27, 2016

Happy Easter, Everytbody! (Part One)

My father went for a walk today.
     I must not have said enough Hail Mary's for Easter, because he found his way home.
     We're expecting some friends and relatives over for the holiday. As I was buffing the oak floor, the noise must have bothered my tired old Dad because he gave me the Mad Dog look you see on gangbangers and hippity-hoppers. He's given that look to everybody but my wife, because he knows she's in charge of his next meal.
     My father, when he's inclined, can give the ugliest bug-eyed look. It's very scary. Imagine the scariest monster in the scariest movie you've ever seen, like the ex-wife fighting Dustin Hoffman for custody of his son in Kramer Vs Kramer, now imagine that monster with its eyes bulging out of its skull and giving you the stink eye.
     It's a frightening look.
     As odd as it sounds, I'm reading a book about mathematics. It's called Things To Make And Do In The Fourth Dimension by Matt Parker. Who knew there even was a fourth dimension, much less that you could make things in it?
     The first thing I learned was how much more a book about mathematics costs than a regular book. It was bigger than a regular paperback, but smaller than a trade paperback, and it cost me $16.00 plus tax. I don't need a math book to figure out that the "plus tax" part means more money out of my wallet. That's why I've started to do my book shopping at the library bookstore. They may not have everything I want, but what they have, they have at a price I like.
     Unfortunately, they didn't have the book on mathematics, so I had to  go to a real (i.e. more expensive) bookstore and pay full price.
     I keep saying "book about mathematics" rather than "math book," because it's not a text book, like we had in school. It's a book about math the way the book Born To Run by Christopher McDougall is about running.
     I had wanted to learn about mathematics ever since I saw the movie Contact (which, incidentally, shows a cheesecake shot of Jodie Foster that to this day I'm still mathematically grateful for). In it, mankind is able to communicate with space aliens using mathematics, and the space aliens are able to send plans on how to build a complex facility, think along the lines of a nuclear power plant, that will allow for travel between the two civilizations, again, using math as the form of communication. It was a good movie, kind of long, but the shot of Jodie Foster made up for that.
     Years before I saw the movie Contact, I was fascinated to learn that Newton (the scientist, not the cookie), in order to prove his theories (such as calculating the distance between planets), had to invent a whole new discipline of math: calculus
     Now you know who to blame.
     It's taken me someone's whole youth to finally get around to learning about math, but here I am. The author is a mathematician, a comedian, and English, so the book is interesting, funny, and has bad teeth. He's made mathematics entertaining the way McDougall made running entertaining.
     For example, take the number 111,111,111 and multiply it by itself.
 
111,111,111 x 111,111,111 = ?
 
     The answer is kind of nerdy, but pretty cool.
     Another thing you can do with math is mathematically prove ALL movement is impossible. Mathematically, it is impossible to move from point "A" to point "B". What good does that information do you? Not much, until your wife wants you to go shopping with her and you're busy sitting in your favorite chair watching Contact on TV and waiting for that scene with Jodie Foster to come on.
     "Sorry, honey, I can't go shopping with you because it is mathematically impossible for me to move from where I'm sitting to where you're going."
     The impossibility of movement comes in mighty handy at such a moment.
     "And, since it's impossible for me to move, can you bring me a beer?"
     When I told my buddy Maloney what I was reading, he asked me: "Are you drunk?"
     Have I ever mentioned how it takes Maloney an hour and a half to watch 60 Minutes?
     (See? That joke couldn't have been written without mathematics.)
     I told him no, and then casually mentioned how a lady in a nearby town received a three million dollar sexual harassment settlement.
     "What does THAT have to do with anything?" he wanted to know.
     I then reminded him how, when he started jogging, he once told a female co-worker who had expressed interest in joining him: "If you want to go running with me, you'd better not pass out, because you'll wake up with your shorts around your ankles."
     Three million dollars.
     That's a hard way to learn about math.
     Maloney still didn't understand the importance of mathematics.
     "When do you ever use it?" he challenged me.
     "You use it everyday," I told him, and then was about to explain how , say, you invite a friend of yours and his family over for Easter. Let's just call that friend Maloney, because that happens to be his name. After you've made your plans on what you're going to serve, how much you're going to cook, and you've gone to the grocery store and bought everything you need, say that friend's wife calls and asks if she can bring a friend and that friend's family (two parents plus two children equals four). That's the original number of people who were invited over for Easter (n) plus four (4).
 
n + 4 = y
   
       So you recalculate, return to the store, and re-empty your wallet even further. And then, a few days later, that friend's daughter calls and asks if she can bring a friend and that friend's family (another two parents plus two children equals an additional four).
 
n + (4 x 2) = y
 
       And so you recalculate, return to the store, re-spend even more money, and, when you get back, you find Maloney's mother-in-law sitting at your table... eating.
      "I don't know why she's here," your wife whispers to you, but it's apparent that Maloney invited her too, probably to get her out of his hair.
     So that's now...
 
n + (4 x 2) + 1 = y
  
     "Y," as in: "Why are there so many people coming over for Easter?"
     But I didn't tell him that. Instead I explained to him that with mathematics, I could stop bullying.
     "Impossible," Maloney sniffed, dismissively.
     "The mathematical formula is this: The shortest distance between a bully and stopping him is a straight line from my fist to his face."
     "Jesus Christ," Maloney exclaims, not getting the joke, "that makes no sense."
     "Watch your mouth," I told my friend. "Today, you make Jesus cry. Tomorrow, he makes YOU cry.
     That's mathematics, too.   
   
 
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Gary Shandling. / One of my favorite comedians. Dead at 60-something.
 
My father. / Alive enough to give me the evil eye while I buffed my oak floor.
I was bothering him at 97-years-old.
 
 

Sunday, March 20, 2016

Outsmarting The TV Set

Baseball season hasn't started, but pre-season training has.
     Most baseball teams practice and train in Arizona, and they'll play each other several times a week. Several times a week too often, if you ask me, but that's neither here nor there. I'm here, thank God I'm not there. Watching baseball, that is.
     My father, even with his Alzheimer's, still enjoys seeing his favorite team play. The game is slow, with a lot of down time, so he doesn't get as confused as with other fast moving sports like bird-watching or chess.
     We tried watching a soccer game one time, but we both lost interest. It was during the World Cup, and we fell for the hype.
     "What's happening?" my father kept asking me.
     "Well," I'd say, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as I could "one player is kicking the ball up the field and now another player is kicking the ball back down."
     It's like basketball, with feet, I wanted to tell him, but that might be more information than he would care to process. Besides, in basketball, they really rack up the points, making the game more interesting to watch.
     "What's happening now?"
     "Nothing," I would tell him, watching the players do what they do the way they do it. The players--to me, at least--were all interchangeable. My father, bless his heart, was giving it his best.
     "What's the score?" he'd want to know.
     "Zero/zero," I'd tell him.
     "Still?"
     "Yeah, still."
     He'd shift in the seat of his--my--favorite chair.
     "How long have we been watching?" he'd ask.
     "An hour." I'd answer.
     "And they still haven't scored?"
     "No."
     He moved forward quickly. Well, as quickly as an old guy can manage.
     "Hey, look! That guy got hurt!"
     As soon as the refs made their call, the player got up and ran back to his place in the field.
     "I guess not," my father said, disappointed.
     I don't think he wanted anybody to get hurt, he only wanted something to happen. But nothing every did. What felt like hours later, the score was still zero/zero. We didn't even hang around for the traditional riots to take place.
     Like I said, we gave it a shot.
     But, back to baseball...
     Because it's still training, his favorite team only plays two or three times a week. Stubborn as he is, my father wants to watch them play every day, and, the way my youngest daughter, when she was a toddler, used to like to listen to the same song "Fly Away" by FFH* over and over again, he doesn't understand why he can't.
     "Again! Again!" my daughter used to say, but the DJ on the radio never listened.
     "What do you mean they're not playing?" my Dad would complain when he couldn't find them on the costly baseball channel I pay for**.
     But I'm not entirely heartless. I felt bad for the old gummer, and came up with a brilliant solution, even if I do say so myself. I record each of the games. On the days his favorite team doesn't play, I'll put on one of the recorded games for him.
     He has watched the same game three times already, and, for him, every time is the first time. He has never caught on that he has already seen the game. It's like me, when I was a kid, and he used to take me to see the Harlem Globetrotters when they'd come to town***. It never occurred to me that every time they played, whether on the road or on TV, they were always playing the Washington Generals.
     The other day, I heard him excitedly telling my wife, "Oh, man! This time they almost won!" My wife and I looked at each other and smiled.
     It was the third time he had watched the same game.
     Oh, well. Maybe they'll win the next time he watches it. You know, according to quantum physics, in an alternate universe, they already have. 
     Hmm, now that I think about it, life might be simpler with less brain cells.
  
********************
  
     As I watch the news, I see that Steven Tyler of Aerosmith is a very old 67, and alive and dating Aimee Ann Preston, who is 28 years old.
     Me? I'm a young mumble, mumble, mumble, and baby-sitting my father, who, at 97, is watching a certain baseball game...
     ...for the fourth time.

 
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*It's a Christian song, and, for those of you who think Christian music isn't any good, then you've obviously never heard "He Reigns" by The Newsboys or "I Can Only Imagine" by MercyMe or "O Praise Him" by The David Crowder Band.****
 
**I say costly, but there's a value to keeping my father entertained and out of my hair.
 
***Not really, but I like to tell my brother he did.
 
****Or "The Only Thing I Need" by 4Him.*****
 
*****Or, for those of you who like your rock & roll a little heavier, "Caroline" by Seventh Day Slumber.
 
 

Thursday, March 10, 2016

He Who Laughs Last (Part Two)

Of course I couldn't let what my brother wrote me to go unchallenged, so I wrote him back that my grandson even mentioned knowing him in Heaven.
     "He did?" my brother asked, probably wondering what the catch was.
     "He did," I answered. "He said, 'I asked Grandma, "Who's that guy with the Zika head and the big nose?"
     'She said, "That's your Lito's brother. The guy who thinks he's funny."
     '"He is?" I asked Grandma.
     '"He is," Grandma told me.
     '"Grandma," I said, "I don't want to be born anymore."'"
 
 
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Sunday, March 6, 2016

Who's That Guy With The Beard? (Part One)

When my grandson was 2-years-old, he told me many times that before he was born he was an angel in heaven, and he used to see my mother there all the time. When I asked him how he knew she was my mother, he answered that she told him that I was her son. To this day he talks about the times he met and spoke with her.
     When he was 3-years-old, we were on a hiking trip.
     "Lito," he asked me, calling me by a shortened version of the Spanish word for grandfather, "why do Angels have wings?"
     Just recently, on our last trip, while we were climbing a particularly tough mountain, he asked me, "Lito, do souls feel pain?"
     He must have been hurting from the climb, but he didn't complain.
     The kid's tough.
     Like me.
     That night, sleeping under the stars, he asked, "Do Angles sleep?"
     You know, that kid sure does ask a lot of questions. I answered as best and as honestly as I could. I'm not a holy roller by any means, but I do acknowledge a power in the universe greater than us.
     And I don't mean Donald Trump.
     When I emailed my brother (who, oddly enough, supports Ted Cruz, but promised his youngest daughter he would vote for Donald Trump) about my grandson's profound questions, as usual, he was no help. This is what he wrote me:
     "So when your grandson tells you that he met Mom in Heaven, do you tell him, 'It's all in your head, kid. There is no such thing as Heaven. It's all made up. In fact, there's no God, either. And you can forget about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.'
     "'But I did meet with Grandma in Heaven. She was talking to a man with a beard, but she told him to go multiply some fishes or something. She said she wanted to spend time with me before it was time for me to be born.'
     "'It's all in your head, kid. Grandma wasn't even into guys with beards.'
     "'I only knew it was Grandma because she told me she was your mother and you were her son.'
     "'Get it straight, kid. Was she my mother or was I her son? It's one or the other. You're making no sense.'
     "'I sure do miss talking with Grandma up in Heaven. It sure beats talking to you right now. By the way, why do angels have wings?'
     "'There are no such things as angels, guardian angels in particular. When you're scared late at night, remember, there's nothing and no one there to protect you. You're just a fluke of the universe.'
     "'Well, do souls feel pain?'
     "'Since there is no God and no Heaven and no angels, then you can bet your sweet bippy that there are no souls either. And, if there are no souls, then how can they feel pain? They can't. That's the point. No, kid, you're just an empty vessel hurtling through an uncaring cosmos without purpose or direction.'
     "'Do Angels sleep?'
     "'What?'
     "'Do angels sleep?'
     "'If a tree falls in the woods, and there's no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?'
     "'Lito, what the heck are you talking about?'
     "'I'm talking about life, kid. I'm talking about what's real. I'm talking about a world where Donald Trump could be our next president.'
     "'If Donald Trump is our next president, Lito, then there is no God.'"
 
 
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