Yeah, I know. It's supposed to be Statistics, although the originator isn't Mark Twain, to whom it often gets attributed. Twain himself claimed to be quoting Disraeli, which probably isn't correct either, since the phrase doesn't appear in any of Disraeli's works and the first known appearances were after his death. In any case, I've always preferred the kaleidoscope twist on the stats lie theme I came across during my data analyst / database geek days (and haven't found again—I'd love to source this if anyone knows) and had on my desk for inspiration: “I can squeeze the stats until they'll scream whatever I want.” I still can, by the way [insert evil grin and wild cackle] and have a lot of fun doing it, particularly during sports debates.
But back to the lies, damned lies and blogging we provided you with a few days ago. Which was was which, you wonder (at least I hope you do)?
If you've read enough of my previous posts here to get a bit of feel for my mystery reading tastes, you can probably guess that I don't write spy novels. Writing? Sure, maybe. Spy novels? Not so much. Lies.
The world record isn't true either; but isn't it an irresistible one to strive for and be able to brag about owning? I might have the lung capacity for it (partially through training that dates back to the true item—there are about 12 feet of coiled pipe in a standard French horn, 15-20 feet on a double. And you thought aerobics gave your lungs a workout...) I think I have enough self discipline—or at least its close cousin, pure pigheadedness—to hang on through the tickling. But no record. And no existing one to strive for that I can find. Which is hard to believe. I mean, there's an official Guiness record for the largest crowd to dance together to Village People's "YMCA". But none for this? Sad reflection on society is all I can say.
While not owner of the holding breath while being tickled record, I am, however, the current record holder for stare downs amongst my acquaintance. I can twitch the end of my nose like a bunny, and people have a really tough time holding it together in the face of *twitch*... *twitch*... *twitchtwitch*.... *twitchtwitchtwitchtwitchtwitch*. Damned lies.
So what's with this French horn thing, the true one? Well back in the Mesozoic Era, when I joined my school orchestra, I wanted to be a drummer. But boys were given preference, especially back then, and they had snared (sorry, I tried to resist, honest) all the spots in the percussion section. I wasn't all that interested in the “girl's instruments” like flute and clarinet I was being encouraged toward, and finally ended up in the underserved French horn section instead. Which was OK, other than the fact that it left me trapped in an open-backed chair, sitting in front of a group of juvenile boys with trombones in their possession that had both a loooong metal slide and a spit valve.But I liked and still love the sound of a French horn—it literally sings, in rich, sweet, melodic but still ringing tones you can pick out of any crowd of instruments. One of the nicest compliments I've ever been given about my own singing voice was someone (who didn't know I played one) comparing it to the sound of a French horn.
My farm town hometown was pretty small, with highly limited entertainment options and small classes to populate the orchestra from (it was and still is K-12 in the same building). So to add some variety to things, we regularly did exchange and combined concerts with other high school orchestras in the area. The next town over was a college town, where author John Gardner came to teach one year when we were scheduled to do a combined concert with their local high school.
This young man sat next to me with his French horn and introduced himself as John Gardner's son. Bringing in his father out of apparent shyness about himself rather than to name drop. He was pretty reserved. And against the odds (bookishness in the college town was one thing, bookishness in my little farm town on the other hand...) I knew who he was talking about and said as much. Including that I had just read The Wreckage of Agathon, which I adored (my cynicism started young). He was a much better horn player than I (he didn't say much but did mention that his father had played as well), but most of what I remember once I got past being awed over his father's name was being equally awed at the son's look, which I still remember vividly—amazing long white-blond hair like his father and sensitive features on a Slavic-broad face. Striking on its own, but absolutely dazzling above the white satin tux that was like nothing I'd ever seen which he wore for the final performance.
My 1 degree of separation connection with literary greatness. Blogging.
