I’m working on trying to remember that I’m 54. It’s not that I fear it, or regret it; it’s that I’m likely not to remember it. It’s not as though I can recall all the times I spent at Studio 54; heck, I never even saw the movie. It’s a nonadecagonal number, but I don’t even know what that means.
It’s not like a number divisible by 10, or even 5. It’s not a power of a number, such as 27 or 32 or 36 or 49 or 64. It’s not a repeating digit (33, 44, or next year’s 55).
It’s not a popular culture iconic number such as Jack Benny’s 39 or Paul McCartney’s 64 (again – I should DEFINITELY remember that year.)
It doesn’t have special meaning to me, such as last year (53 – born in ’53) or the year I turned 37 (March 7) or will turn 73 (7 March).
It’s not even a prime number.
So how do I embrace my 54ness? Shall I remember that 54 is:
The atomic number of xenon, a noble gas?
The jersey number of Chicago Bears’ middle linebacker Brian Urlacher?
The number of the police car on an old NBC sitcom I used to watch enough that I STILL remember the theme, from which someone made a terrible movie starring David Johansen and John C. McGinley, the very existence of which I didn’t remember?
Then it struck me, though not right away: 54 is the number of my house. I guess I WILL be able to remember it after all, and won’t have to recall 54 40 or fight.
(There is some appropriate Homeric response, but I’m not going to g’oh there.)
***
There’s a holdup in the Bronx,
Brooklyn’s broken out in fights.
There’s a traffic jam in Harlem
That’s backed up to Jackson Heights.
There’s a scout troop short a child,
Kruschev’s due at Idlewild
Car 54, Where Are You?
***
Re: the US Attorneys’ firing case, you may have seen this letter (in PDF) that has more conditions that attendees at a hypochondriac convention. Or as one colleague put it: “Jedi mind tricks: ‘You will hear testimony from only Harriet Miers and you will be satisfied…'” And to think that she could have been on the Supreme Court.
ROG
