A.J. Jacobs Omnibus: The Know-It-All, The Year of Living Biblically, My Life as an Experiment

by A. J. Jacobs

  triumvirate

  A couple of more weeks till Millionaire, and I’m still cramming like Thomas Jefferson on a bender (as a young man, he studied fifteen hours a day, practiced violin for three, and spent the remaining six eating or sleeping).

  I take time out to choose my lifelines. These are the folks who will be waiting by their phones to help me in case Meredith asks me a stumper of a question. My friend Mike offered to be my lifeline for any and all juice-related questions (he works for a smoothie company). A nice offer. But in the end, I settle on Ron Hoeflin—he of the nosebleed-altitude IQ—and Dave Sampugnaro, the five-time Jeopardy! champ.

  Also Eric. Yes, my brother-in-law and nemesis (the original Nemesis, by the way, was a Greek goddess of vegetation who had sex with Zeus-disguised-as-a-

  swan). I struggled with this one, but I figure we’re talking about a million bucks here. A million bucks would soothe my ego just fine. The man just knows too much information not to be a lifeline. I accepted this a couple of weeks ago when, in response to his mom’s question about the historical accuracy of Ben Hur, Eric gave a startling century-by-century history of the Roman Empire—from the first triumvirate (Julius Caesar, Pompey, Marcus Crassus) right on up to the death of the Holy Roman Empire. I tried to keep up—I threw in a reference to the Visigoths and another to the Ostrogoths—but Eric just trampled me. I went home and checked on his facts. Sadly, they were all correct.

  Soon after, I pop the question. “Eric, would you do me the honor of being my lifeline on Millionaire?”

  “You want me as a lifeline?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if I help you win a million, what kind of financial remuneration will I get?”

  I think for a second.

  “Well, I’ll give you ten percent of my winnings. But if you screw up, you have to reimburse me for the entire amount that I lost.”

  In that case, Eric said, he’d do it for free. Julie beamed. She was proud of my hard bargaining.

  I figure I’d put Eric to work early. I had noticed a quirk in the way Millionaire pays out its reward money. In the fine print of the ream of documents they sent me, it said that $250,000 is paid in one lump sum—but $500,000 and $1,000,000 are paid out over ten and twenty years, respectively. If you factored in inflation and lost investment opportunities, could $250,000 actually be a better deal? I hope so. I figure that would be a great moment in Millionaire history: I stop at $250,000 and explain to Meredith the intricacies of amortized payments. So I ask Eric—the former investment banker—to crunch the numbers.

  He e-mails back that $1,000,000 over twenty years came out to $540,000 in today’s dollars. That’s before taxes, mind you—but it is still more cash than the other options. Damn. Now I really have to try to win the million.

  Trotsky, Leon

  Julie’s breasts have ballooned up so much that she walks around the apartment holding them in place with her hands. It’s very distracting when I’m trying to read about trolls (they burst into flame when hit by sunlight) and Trotsky (killed in Mexico by an axe murderer).

  Trump, Donald

  I am watching an HBO documentary with Julie, and the Britannica makes a surprise cameo. Not a flattering one, though. The documentary is called Born Rich, and follows the frivolous lives of a bunch of young heirs—the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune, the daughter of Donald Trump (he owns more than twenty-five thousand apartments, by the way). These privileged tools were each sitting on some serious coin. Add up their trust funds, and it’d rival Pizarro’s collection of treasures (the conquistador collected a ransom of twenty-four tons of gold and silver for the Inca emperor Atahuallpa—whom he then killed).

  Anyway, the documentary features some guy from an obscure branch of the European ruling class. He has a superior accent, well-oiled hair, and a nice chunk of his parents’ textile fortune. He spends much of his leisure time—which he has in abundance—ordering around his personal tailor; he tells us he found improperly positioned lapels “vulgar.” Truly the most odious of heirs. Then at one point, he shows the viewers his eleventh edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and explains that this was the last time the Britannica was good. Since then, it had “become for the masses. Now, the Encyclopaedia Britannica is, you know…sheeet.” What a putz. What right does he have to insult my beloved Britannica? Read 28 million words of it, then come back and talk to me.

  This guy—whose name I don’t remember—is a walking argument for the sweeping revision of inheritance laws. The Britannica’s inheritance section says that primitive food gatherers destroyed a person’s belongings—his weapons, his bowls—upon his death. Also, the Papua of New Guinea burned the hut of a dead man. Maybe we could learn something from this. Maybe we should burn the Jaguars and Nokia cell phones of these people’s parents when they die. Or at least redistribute them.

  It’s possible our whiny aristocrat doesn’t like the current edition because it points out that proinheritance arguments have lost a lot of force. Nowadays, you don’t need inheritance to guarantee the continuance of business. In general, business is handed from CEO to CEO, not from father to son. So the economy would presumably keep humming if Ivanka Trump had to start driving a Hyundai and eating at KFC. The world’s economy wouldn’t suffer if this European nitwit had to join the masses he finds so sheety.

  Tunguska event

  This was an “enormous aerial explosion that, at about 7:40 A.M. on June 30, 1908, flattened approximately five hundred thousand acres of pine forest near the Podkamennaya Tunguska River, central Siberia, in Russia. The energy of the explosion was equivalent to that of ten to fifteen megatons of TNT. Uncertain evidence of various kinds suggests that the explosion was perhaps caused by a comet fragment colliding with the Earth.”

  I had more than a passing acquaintance with the Tunguska event. For a couple of weeks there, when I was eight or nine, I was obsessed with it. I had read about the massive Siberian explosion in a collection of unsolved mysteries, and I can now recall the black-and-white drawing of thousands of trees splayed out on the forest floor. I looked it up in other books after that. I knew all the theories—that the Tunguska event was really the result of a UFO doing target practice, or that it was a chunk of antimatter that somehow took a left turn and sailed into our atmosphere. Naturally, I worried—if it can happen in Siberia, why can’t it happen on Eighty-second Street in Manhattan? Who’s to say that I won’t be vaporized in the Upper East Side event?

  And then, when that didn’t happen over the next few weeks, the Tunguska faded from my memory. In the past twenty-six years, until just moments ago, I had given absolutely zero thought to the Tunguska event. I guess unexplained Siberian explosions don’t come up too much in celebrity journalism.

  turnip

  It’s Halloween today. In the British Isles, the Halloween jack-o’-lantern is made from a turnip, not a pumpkin. The savages.

  By the way, another good thing about Julie being pregnant: she’s too tired to go out. No pumpkin carving. No turnip carving. No costumes. (In the past couple of years I was enlisted to be Colonel Sanders, then Colonel Mustard from Clue, so who knows what colonel I’d be this year?) Instead, we get to stay inside and watch something scary on TV. We opt for a show about former child actors going out on dates.

  tutelage

  My friend Jamie has invited me to speak to an adult education class he’s teaching. Finally, after enduring the speed-reading and memory fiascoes, a chance to be on the other side of the adult education table. This time I will be the one pontificating.

  It’s a writing class. There are about a dozen students who want to shed their real jobs and join the lucrative field of writing, where you can earn lots of money if your name happens to include both the words “Stephen” and “King.” The students seem nice enough. One has spent a lot of time as a ski bum and wants to go into magazines, another wants out of her hellish PR job.

  I decide to start with some good writing advice I’d culled from the encyclopedia. I print
ed my speech on little index cards to make myself look organized and professional. I begin reading.

  First, I tell them to be aggressive. The poet Langston Hughes was a busboy at a hotel in Washington, D.C. While in the dining room, he slipped three of his poems beside the dinner plate of established poet Vachel Lindsay. The next day, newspapers announced Lindsay had discovered a “Negro busboy poet.” The moral: get your writing in people’s face—no matter how you do it.

  Second, I tell them they can write anywhere. If you have a job at the Gap, steal a few minutes and write some lines in the sweater section. No excuses. Hugh Lofting wrote Dr. Doolittle while in the trenches of World War I. Amid exploding grenades and gas masks and rats, he created a lovely little story about talking animals that he sent home to amuse his children. Be like Hugh. Write everywhere.

  Then I tell them that if you write with style and passion, you can make any topic interesting. Any topic at all, as William Cowper proved. Cowper was a poet whose friend challenged him to write a long discursive poem about a sofa. He did, and it was a smash success. Personally, I’d rather read a footrest-based novel, but I can see the allure of sofas.

  Jamie’s students all nod politely. But I notice a remarkable lack of movement of their pens. Every time I look up from my speech, all the pens are still lying on their desks. Notes are conspicuously not being taken.

  Then one of them asks if I know anyone at The New Yorker.

  Well, yes, I reply.

  “How do we e-mail them?” he asks.

  I don’t feel comfortable giving out my New Yorker contact’s name, but I tell them that all e-mail addresses at The New Yorker are made with an underscore between first and last names.

  This time, the pens in the classroom begin scribbling: first name_lastname@newyorker.com. That they find interesting.

  typewriter

  I haven’t touched one of these since my mom’s electric Remington back in the early eighties, a machine that hummed so loud it drowned out anything resembling a coherent thought. It was like trying to write my high school essays about Huck Finn or the Whiskey Rebellion on the tarmac at La Guardia. Still, I feel I should pay some attention to typewriters, since I spend most of my day pecking away at the typewriter’s electronic descendant.

  I learn that Mark Twain was an early adapter, submitting the very first typewritten manuscript to a publisher. Those antediluvian typewriters were the size of pianos, and also had only capital letters. In 1878, typewriters finally introduced lowercase letters. Yes, the shift key was born—but mind you, it wasn’t an easy birth. The shift key had to do battle with a rival, the double-keyboard machine, which contained twice the number of keys, two for each letter, a small and a large. After many years, the shift key won out thanks to the invention of touch typing.

  I take a minute and look at the shift key on my Macintosh PowerBook G3. Good for you, shift key. I’m glad you trounced that evil double-key method. CONGRATULATIONS! There, I just used you. Thanks again.

  That’s a nice thing about reading the Britannica. I’m constantly learning to appreciate things that I didn’t even know deserved appreciation. The lightbulb and the theory of relativity—they get more good PR than Tom Hanks’s visit to a children’s hospital. But it’s the little things, the forgotten mini revolutions that need our thanks.

  U

  ukelele

  The Hawaiian ukelele is adapted from the Portuguese machada and is quite unsuited to indigenous musical forms. In other words, Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles” is not an ancient Pacific island chant. Disillusioning.

  umlaut

  It’s time for my haj. Time to make the pilgrimage to the Britannica HQ. These thirty-two volumes have consumed the last months of my life, and I’m desperately curious to see their birthplace.

  Well, the real birthplace is Edinburgh, Scotland. I won’t be going there. But since the 1930s—when the Britannica was owned, briefly and improbably, by Sears Roebuck—the offices have been located in Chicago. I haven’t been to Chicago since my days at Entertainment Weekly, when I visited the city to report on another highbrow cultural institution, The Jerry Springer Show. If I had to guess, I’d say the Britannica trip will involve slightly fewer lesbians wrestling in chocolate pudding. Julie wants to come—she has friends in Chicago—so we book a flight.

  “You know, it’s not called the Windy City because of the wind,” I tell her. “It’s because the early Chicago politicians were full of wind, as in hot air. That’s how it got the nickname.”

  “A dollar, please.”

  I’ve lost about $20 so far on fines for irrelevant facts. But this one I’m going to fight.

  “That’s not irrelevant. That’s useful meteorological information. I’m saying it’s not as windy as you might think. Don’t pack a windbreaker.”

  Julie shrugs, gives me that one.

  The morning after we arrive in Windbag City, I wake up, put on a blazer so I look all professional, and go meet the Britannica’s publicist, Tom Panelas, for breakfast. As a journalist, it’s part of my job to think of all publicists as soldiers of Satan. But with Tom, that’s not possible. He’s a burly man with a booming, from-the-diaphragm voice and an easy laugh. As I mentioned before, Tom is smart—he’s got a frightening vocabulary and range of references. I remember once, while talking to Tom on the phone, I mentioned my birth date for some reason—March 20, 1968—and Tom said, “That was right between the Tet offensive and MLK’s assassination,” which simultaneously dismayed me about my birthday and impressed me greatly with Tom’s memory. He unabashedly carries three or so pens in his shirt pocket. He’ll tell the occasional intellectual joke. Like: “René Descartes walks into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Yo, René, how you doing? Can I get you a beer?’ ‘I think not,’ replies Descartes. And then he disappears.” After which joke, Tom will immediately apologize.

  The only time I saw Tom even slightly rattled was when I mentioned an article that claimed that, at one time, the domain name encyclopaediabritannica.com had been swiped by another Web site—one that featured blond women doing things you probably wouldn’t even find in the reproduction section of the encyclopedia. Linking Britannica and hardcore porn—that made him a little nervous. And he wanted to make quite clear any problem like that had long since been remedied.

  In any case, Tom has scheduled a packed day for me, a breakneck tour of the Britannica’s highlights. So off we go. It is an odd feeling walking off the elevator and into the offices. I’ve been reading the Britannica so much, it has become this disembodied mountain of knowledge. It seems somehow delivered from on high, whole and intact, like Deuteronomy. I almost forget there are people who put it together, people who put on their pants—often corduroy pants, it would turn out—one leg at a time.

  But there are indeed editors, and they are indeed mortal. Also quiet. This could be the quietist office in America. Tom has told me that, at one point, the company that owned Muzak also owned the Britannica, which meant the office was constantly bathed in soothing cheesified versions of Simon and Garfunkel. But no more. All I hear is the click-clack of of computer keyboards and an occasional polite, low discussion of Gothic architecture, or what have you.

  The offices are clean and clutter-free, not counting a smattering of highbrow cubicle knickknacks, like the foam rubber brain issued by the Britannica a few years before. The office walls are appointed with a tasteful selection of Britannica lore: a Norman Rockwell–painted ad showing Grampa reading a volume to his eager granddaughter; the first timeline (not the first timeline in the Britannica, mind you: the first timeline, which appeared in the third edition); and some of the original engravings for the 1768 edition—most notably some extremely disquieting images of old midwifery contraptions that look like something you’d find alongside a ball gag in an S&M closet. And so on.

  My first stop is with the two top editors—Dale Hoiberg and Theodore Pappas. Dale studied Chinese literature, and his office has a print of Confucius on the walls. For some reason, Dale reminds me
of the father on the eighties puppet sitcom Alf—a fact I decide to keep to myself. This is not the place for that. Theodore has a mustache and a blue vest and a tie and is very precise. You get the feeling his CD rack does not indiscriminately mix classical and jazz. Both Dale and Theodore are very kind, in that gentle academic sort of way.

  I immediately decide I like them, partly because they seem very curious about me. What’s not to like? I tell them my quest is going well. Their thirty-two-volume work is a great read, if incredibly challenging.

  “The math sections,” I say, “are my bête noir.”

  Bête noir? I can’t believe that came out of my mouth. Who talks like that? I realize I’m more nervous than I thought I would be. I’m so desperate to impress these guys, to prove I’m no lightweight, that I’ve resorted to the injudicious use of absurd French phrases.

  When we start talking specific things I’ve learned, somehow the first fact that springs to mind is one about embalming. In particular, the tale of the crafty widower who kept his wife aboveground so as to inherit her money (see embalming). I’m a little embarrassed that—out of all the thousands and thousands of facts in the EB—this is the one I share. On the other hand, at least I don’t tell them the one about the five-butted abalone.

  “I found that embalming story fascinatingly morbid,” I say, trying to recover by using a well-placed adverb.

  They chuckle graciously. They didn’t know about that one.

  Didn’t know about it? That takes me aback. Somehow, I assumed that the editors of the Britannica would have a handle on pretty much everything in the encyclopedia. They edit the damn thing, right? Well, if I give that notion more than three seconds’ thought, I would realize it is moronic. The editor in chief couldn’t possibly read or remember all his books’ 44 million words. But hearing it in person—getting proof that I have at least one piece of knowledge Dale and Theodore don’t have—well, it’s a huge relief.