Channukah 2009: Karp-Style

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Act Your Age, Not Your Shoe Size

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The other day I was traveling to work and the conversation on the bus was more animated than usual, which means that there was conversation on the bus. One of my colleagues joked that although he is 40, he has a mental age of 17. In other words, he still thinks he's Superboy when he's actually more like the father from the Wonder Years. This got me thinking about what my mental age is. I also sometimes feel like I'm still a teenager. In fact, I cracked a joke the other day and my daughter's friend remarked that my jokes are just as good as Eitan's. Who'se Eitan? Her nearly-thirteen-year-old brother. The phrase "act your age, not your shoe size" would not really apply in this situation because using the  Australian shoe size chart , my joke was almost spot on, give or take 2.5 years. There are a number of ways I can measure my mental age: Self assessment Friend Psychologist I decided that none of these options would be accurate enough. For st
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G-d is playing with my mind. A few months ago my wife and I decided to buy a lottery ticket. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. What irked me was knowing, not so very deep in my heart, that I was flushing money down the drain. I mean, what are the odds? According to this site on Lottery Math, The odds of a "Lotto" style lottery can be found with the formula: n! / (n - r)! r! where n is the highest numbered ball and r is the number of balls chosen. This is called in math a combination . An easier way to think about it is if there are 40 balls and 6 are chosen, there are 40 possible numbers that can come up first, leaving 39 that can come up second, then 38, 37, 36, and finally 35 on the final number. To find out how many numbers that is you multiply 40 ×39 ×38 ×37 ×36 × 35 = 2,763,633,600 making the odds 2 and a half billion to one. Two and a half billion to one?! The money spent on the ticket could easily have gone to purchasing at least one bottle of beer with a 100% cha
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The day started out cold and wet. Looking out at the slick roads winding their way below my brother's Jerusalem apartment, I imagined that I'd be doing more sliding than running in that day's race. But, as the old Aussie song goes, "Will you tie it up with wire, just to keep the show on the road?" - yep, the show will go on, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm in it. The taxi had difficulty reaching Givat Ram. Thousands of people were converging on the stadium. Some jogged slowly, warming themselves up for the race, others arrived by car, bicycle, and groups in sporty uniforms disembarked from coaches near the entrance. When I arrived inside the grounds at about 8.00am, the festivities were in full swing. A band was playing Israeli tunes, with an unlikely bagpipe accompaniment. At the registration tent, I obtained my runner's pack, complete with a t-shirt, timing chip to strap to my shoe, and an energy bar. Shortly afterward, I met my wife a
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