Useless Information

The average large elm tree has eight million leaves. I don't know what constitutes an "average" or a "large" elm tree (I'm not even sure I'd know an elm tree if one fell on me, crushing me with the weight of its eight million leaves, not to mention its sturdy trunk) but I'm impressed by this statistic. I've been carrying it around with me for several weeks now, trying to slip it seamlessly into conversation, but to no avail. The subject of elm trees just doesn't arise that often in my circles.

Nor does the subject of locusts, meaning I can only share my knowledge that locusts are in fact just angry grasshoppers if I say, "Hey guys, did you know locusts are just angry grasshoppers?" which gets the information out, but so inelegantly. (And I am nothing if not elegant, as my present attire of baggy cotton tank top, shapeless blue trousers of some indeterminate, possibly petroleum-based, material, and house slippers will attest.)

And what of Renaissance astronomy? Did you know the great astronomer Tycho Brae had a gold nose? He lost the original, flesh version to syphillis. Fascinating, no? But waiting for people to stop talking about the World Cup and start talking about the Renaissance, or astonomy, or syphillis is like waiting for the Vltava to start flowing north. Or south. Or whatever way it doesn't normally flow.

I've read that the invention of the telegraph marked the birth of trivia: suddenly, facts - like the temperature in Boston - could be lifted completely out of context and sent whizzing across the country to places (say, San Diego) where they could be of interest, but little use. The result was the invention of the crossword puzzle and the cocktail party - two outlets for otherwise useless information.

So, what I should do is attend a cocktail party, where my store of facts should make me a hit. Failing that (and, as a plan, it seems likely to fail because I never get invited to cocktail parties) I should just drink.