Number Nine [Turn me on dead man]

Maybe the answer was six? Or seven. I can't remember.

The thing is, neither could anyone else.

Here is a situation where context is key, perhaps. Trivia, on a Sunday night, in the cornfields of Illinois. The question: "Including both regular and post-season match-ups, how many perfect games were there in the American League in the past MLB season?"

Teams full of white guys, middle class and beer bellied, put their heads together and started counting, naming, of course, every pitcher on every team who had succeeded in that feat.

When it came time for the answer - either six or seven - and the resultant uproar, not just was the announcer anticipating said uproar. He knew which game was the one in question. "It was a no-hitter, but there was an error," he said, almost immediately, almost before anyone had said, "What about --?"

My team [Oh Shit, Dragon Attack!] watched with detached bemusement.

It's ok, because a guy at the gym listened to the unBridge and me discuss whether Kate Perry's "Fireworks" is kitsch, or vulgar, or both (or if a cultural event can be both) with the same kind of detached bemusement.

That is: one might find the things I think about extraneous or irrelevant. That opinion doesn't necessitate that what [other] men typically consume is worthwhile or relevant.

Six, or seven?