I know nothing

The key to writing can be summed up in one word: patterns.

Writers find patterns.

The obvious patterns get lots of ink: sunrises, love, death, discovering $20 bill in your pants pocket. Advertising writers find patterns in buying behavior, viewing behavior and dare I say it, big data.

Blog writers also find patterns.
And when we don't, we create our own.

Roundseventeen readers will remember my series on "Things Jews Don't Do", "People who need to die", and of course, my current Thursday rotation of letters to Republican Senators.

Last week I stumbled upon a new topic worth revisiting.

"Everyone knows more about ________ than I do."

It's easy for me to fill in that blank as there is so much shit I know nothing about.

SuperHeroes. I know of Stan Lee. He and I have a similar New York Jewish background. He even lived in the Bronx and went to Dewitt Clinton High School, the same institution my juvenile delinquent father attended on a semi-regular basis. But as far as his cast of comic book heroes Captain America, the Hulk, and the guy with the big monkey wrench, I know nothing. Not to come off as elitist, but my teenage novelty reading was more about SPY or National Lampoon magazine. I can drone on about Politenessman and his steel hankie, but...

"Everyone knows more about Superheroes than I do."

Cats. The play and the animal. We were and always will be dog people. Though my wife is getting sick of the thick clumps off hair coming off Lucy's backside. Still, it's better than having a cat. Cat ownership is a total black hole to me. I don't get the kitty litter thing. I don't understand how they can be left in the yard -- why have a cat if he/she is going to be outside all the time. And I never understood cat nip.

 "Everyone knows more about Cats than I do."

Opera/Ballet. In another lifetime, or at least it seems that way, I had a girlfriend who enjoyed opera or ballet. Truth is, for me, they're interchangeably insufferable. Rossini, Verdi, Mendelsohn, Bach and Rachmaninoff, they all mean nothing to me. And yet, I bought the tickets, put on a tie, and a nice blazer and even sported a stupid ass grin through those 3 hour torture sessions. Why did I do that? Oh yeah, never mind.

"Everyone knows more about Opera/Ballet than I do."

I understand how this piece makes me look like an uneducated clod. But we live in tenuous politically correct times. And if I can't make fun of anybody else, at least I can always savage that fat bastard in the mirror.