I have successfully uploaded this blog on 12/12/12 at 12:12:12. And I did it manually.
It’s unlikely that I’ll be doing this again because by 1/1/2101 I will be 138 years old. And if by some miracle I happen to live that long and have enough wits to actually draft a blog, it’s highly unlikely that I will stay up until 1 o’clock in the morning to post it. Automation doesn’t count. If it did, I’d program a blog right now for that time. Of course, by then blogs will be interactive holograms with embedded 4-D advertising, automatically deducting the cost of their products from your bank cloud account. And everyone in the entire universe will be automatically uploading their own holograms on 1/1/01 at 1:01:01, so it won’t be the big deal it is today.
I suppose that my 6-year old son Jake could do it. He’d be 94 years old on the next repeating date. If by chance he was able to actually write a coherent blog, his post would run rampant with words like “fart,” “poop,” and “ burp.” He’d have to ditch school before noon in order to manually post his blog, which would be against many more rules than the arbitrary ones I came up with.
So yes… The Last Manually Posted Blog on the Final Repeating Number of the Century Award goes to yours truly.
Somehow, just by saying that out loud, the award has lost its appeal.
I’ve always been fond of the number 12. I think it’s fortuitous that there should be 12 months and 12 hours on a clock. “17/17/17 at 17:17:17” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. And doubling 17 instead of 12 creates a 34 hour day, which would be absolutely unbearable – that is unless a nap was required in the middle of the day.
I suppose you can call me a dozenphile, if there is such a word. I wish I could say that the number 12 has always been my lucky number, but since I’ve never won more than $11 at lotto, I’ll just say that it’s my favorite number. Whether I’m asked to pick a number in my head or bet on a roulette wheel, 12 is the winner, even if I don’t win. If I ever played sports, I would want the number 12 on my back. Even if I don’t play sports, a number 12 jersey might be a good Christmas gift. Hint hint.
I don’t have any good reason for enjoying the number 12 above all others like the lucky 7 or the ubiquitous number 3. My 12th year of age was by far my geekiest (glasses, braces, pimples, and more freckles than white pigment), and one I would never want to repeat. I am thrilled that I wasn’t cursed with 12 fingers or an IQ of 12. Even though it’s my favorite number, God help me if I ever decided to have 12 children.
- 12 Apostles
- 12 months in a year
- 12 hours on a clock
- 12 inches in a foot
- 12 donuts in a dozen
- 12 dozen in a gross
- 12 zodiac signs
- 12 jurors in a trial
- 12 cards of each suit
- 12 grades in school
- 12 steps and 12 traditions of Alcoholics Anonymous
There are the movies 12 Angry Men, Cheaper By the Dozen, 12 Monkeys, and The Dirty Dozen. I don’t count Ocean’s 12. It was hard enough in the original Ocean’s 11 to remember the roles of 11 main characters, and whenever they increase the Ocean franchise, they add another character. Of course I will always want to see eye candy like George Clooney or Brad Pitt, so unless they want to introduce another memorable and hunky yet humorous actor (say, Bradley Cooper) in Ocean’s 67, the number attached to it will be a blur.
There’s one more association with the number 12 that is especially appropriate: 12 Days of Christmas. Coincidentally, that particular countdown begins tomorrow, so in honor of the season, I will be writing a new blog each day spoofing a different traditional Christmas song. I should warn you that there’s a large probability that it will be crass, dirty, disgusting, or politically incorrect. So if you cry at the fat man’s misfortune during Santa Got Run Over By a Reindeer or want to write a letter of protest over the infidelity of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, I encourage you to tune back into my blog sometime after December 26th.