Enigma

(Verse- Latin)

You veered my way leaned in close.  Our chit-chat touched on morose

Thought out of the box, for an orthodox.  Then you grinned-- Uh, huh

Described you mom’s roast chicken.  I noticed my pulse quicken

Walked me to my car, complained I parked too far.  Then made a joke-- Uh, huh

Are you facetious, or are you serious, or are you kidding or are you both?

(Chorus- Country)

You’re an enigma, wrapped in a Jew

I’m on the outside looking in-- I don’t know what to do

You’re always busy with your sisters, tethered to your mother

Cut the chord, or find another

You called me late, cooed my name.  Confiscated my game.

Said you come around, after sun down.  Then you grinned-- Uh, huh

Your texts today were cunning.  Our repartee’s no-less-than stunning

But you’re slip’ry, keep taunting me.  Can’t nail you down-- Nuh, uh

(Bridge – Country)

I’m totally wrong for you.  You’re apropos for me

Funny and kind.  In that keppie a sharp mind

Our morning was unusual.  But the day was sublime

I’m no baleboostah for you.  You’re apropos for me

But I can’t navigate, our differences of fate

We could start all over.  But I think it’s too late.

(Instrumental)

I’ve lost the shape of your face.  Your pale skin seems out of place

Your fading voice, was not my choice.  Your hard G’s gone-- Uh, huh

You said you liked my moxie.  But-your-commitment’s to-your orth-o-doxy.

I miss our long chats, your black winter hats.  Your dimpled smile-- Uh, huh

You’re so facetious, or are you serious, or were you kidding or are you both?

(repeat chorus – last line x 2)

The Saddest/Silliest Day of the Year

I heard on the radio yesterday that January 6^th was supposed to have been the saddest day of the year-- according to science. Not the science responsible for gravity and school projects on inertia using reclaimed hot wheels cars found under couch cushions, but the “science” with finger-style rabbit ears on either side, responsible for miracle neck creams and weight loss shakes-- especially the strawberry flavored ones that come with a “no exercise” regime. There should be a new branch of scientific research named for these kinds of claims: Goofball Theory, or perhaps, Science for the Heck of It. If I were a journalist or media outlet, I would definitely pick up on a story based on qualitative research data authored by a guy named Cliff. That name just screams no-need-to-fact-check.

As I listened to the broadcast, I discovered that the science was eventually debunked and that the “scientist” was-- get this—a part-time tutor. “Cliff Arnall” if that is his real name, came up with the supposed “research” in 2005-- in cahoots with a travel agency-- in order to motivate sad clowns everywhere to book flights to Palm Springs and cruises to Puerto Vallarta. I wonder what Cliff does with the rest of his time when he isn’t tutoring? Chiropractor/Poet. Or Life Coach/Playlist Advisor. I’d be shocked if he owns a car. I did a little goofball “research” myself—also known as Wikipedia—and discovered that this part-time hoodwinker even had a fake algorithm to go with his flimsy claim.

The algorithm is awesome in that it looks like something that would be on the chalkboard in the background of an episode of Community or South Park. Picture this: (W+D-d)T to the Q power over MN to the little a. It’s factors are weather (W) (Okay, I’ll bite); debt (small d) (I’m still here); time since Christmas (T) (Because “Blue Monday” only afflicts Christians?); and low motivational levels (M) (Of course. The math won’t work without depression factored in). My favorite capitol letter is the Q, which represents “time since failing our New Year’s resolutions” (Hahahahahaha).

That’s hilarious, Cliff. But, why stop there? Why not factor in the number of pine needles I probably missed vacuuming up after taking the tree down and getting it out of the house (P), and divide it by the number of ornaments broken (small o). How about we multiply that baby by the number of different styles, lengths and thicknesses of coats I’ve worn in rotation since the beginning of the Winter Solstice (147) then extrapolate from that the derivative of the number of gift returns I had to make to various shops and malls (R) by the routes I’ve logged the most hours on (22 and 10). How about we compute the absolute value of that, Cliff, by the determinant weight in kilos of guilt I still feel by not having sent out Christmas cards this year (KG), and then put the whole enchilada in parenthesis and multiply that by the number of hours I still spend every day thinking that if I order cards today I can still, maybe, get away with sending them out to my friends as belated Valentines (hV).

I don’t know, Cliff. For a guy who has cajones the size of Rhode Island, I can’t fathom why you stopped short at the saddest day of the year. Why not whip up one of your fancy-schmancy algorithms for the Kookiest Day of the Year? The Pointiest Day of the Year. Or, the infamous, Smelliest Day of the Year. Why don’t you get right on that, Cliff, between tutoring gigs. Deodorant companies are just a phone call away. Meantime I’m going to get on with my life in the world of real science and legit mathematics. I’m going to enjoy the crackle and hiss of wood burning in my fireplace. I’m going to revel in the warmth of my comforter when the air around my ears is still cool in the deep of night and marvel at the magical pixies that fill up my oil tank in the day. I’m going to delight in the reflected light that bounces off a fresh blanket of snow, in through my widows and brightens up the hidden corners of my house that floor lamps can’t reach. And I’m going to be practically giddy that I survived the manic holiday preparations, forced family dinners, and the first winter storm that was barely a smattering when you get right down to it. I’m going to be happy (H) today (T), Cliff (small c), not to spite you and your uptown math, but because I’ve no reason not to be. And this is my simple sciency equation to prove it: (T + J - c = H)