This is a political sort of blog. Actually, I hope it's more about political philosophy, since I don't care much about our current hyper-gerrymandered 1.01-party politics, with its beauty-contest "elections." But, in any case, it's accursedly political.
Except for this post.
I got to thinking, just now, after placing a comment on Craig's Reverent and Free blog, where he was kind enough to honor me with one of his guest slots while he's been on vacation this past week or so. I added a comment to this thread, which I put there Sunday after I had watched the Hungarian Grand Prix. I enjoy auto racing, but only if it involves real race cars, which have neither fenders nor simulated headlights.
So I like to poke fun at NASCAR and its fans, who -- in the no-doubt unfair stereotype -- are inbred rednecks and hillbillies. (Remember when Jim Rome was on a Fort Wayne radio station? He used to refer to it as "Neck-car" -- among the other funny things he said.) But that stereotype of NASCAR fans is, I admit, terribly unfair.
They're not morons. They're mathematicians!
Doubt me? Check out the bumper stickers and back-window decals. They're so numerically oriented. A single number is a message, for the initiated. Some have a deep spiritual and emotional attachment to "88." Others, to "11." Look -- here's a "3" with angel wings and a halo. There's a "3," sort of blending in with an "8." And over there is Calvin, micturating on a "24." (I sure hope Watterston's either getting heavy royalties or suing a number of people vigorously.)
Who, besides a mathematician, loves (or hates) a particular number?
I rest my case.