Errata
Under the pressures of publication deadlines – first draft, second draft, incorporation of editor’s comments, the building of the index, coordinating publication in several countries and multiple markets, and staging the public relations and press rollout, not to mention the book tour – it is not unusual that a few errors will slip through and find their way into the final product, in this case, the memoir of my life so far.
I’m grateful to all who have pointed out these minuscule derangements between the written word and what some might call reality, which I think that all sophisticated people is a slippery concept. Nonetheless It behooves any author to own up to his or her errors.
I did not, upon further reflection, ‘sketch out on the back of a paper napkin’ the underlying principles of the desktop computer, that clicky thing that makes the channels change on the television, the Federal Reserve, Archimedes Screw, trigonometry, the carbon cycle, or the Theory of Relativity. My apologies to the actual authors of these ideas. My role had quite a bit more to do with cementing these concepts in the popular mind. I am sorry for the miscommunication, J should have been clearer.
I have never run a marathon at all, much less run one backwards. Or on a pogo stick. I am sorry my language wasn’t clear on this matter.
There is no element named for me in The Periodic Table, nor are there regular meetings of an ‘official committee’ taking up that matter. My regrets for the misunderstanding.
As it turns out I am not descended from William Shakespeare, Herman Melville, Thomas Jefferson, or the fellow pictured on the front of the box of Quaker Oats. My research methods as it turned out were faulty.
Or Robin Hood.
Or The Man in the Iron Mask.
Or Napoleon.
I have never been referred to as the Eighth Beatle – as far as I know – and I cannot understand how this error slipped through.
While we are on the subject of music, I did not perform the drum solo on Wipeout, the guitar solo on Stairway to Heaven, or the background piano, vocals, handclapping, foot-stomping, whistling, bongo, or nose flute solos on any songs whatsoever. Research is still underway on these matters however and this opinion may be revised in future editions.
Oh, one more thing on the music front, I was not one of the organizers of Woodstock. I was a lot more involved with another concert at about the same time, one of the mixers put together in the basement cafeteria of Rockway Junior High in 1968 in Abject, California. (This one barely makes the list, being a mistake that nearly anyone could make. But I am nothing if not thorough in these matters.)
I did not, upon reviewing my notes, invent tap dancing, the common handshake, or karate, or for that manner electromagnetism, the horror novel, or asphalt. My apologies; a simple mixup of research notes is to blame in this regard. Oh, or the human circulatory system, or the entire notion of a galaxy.
I am not, to my knowledge at least, descended from an ancient creed of assassins. This was an innocent misreading of handwritten notes.
I don’t literally have ice water in my veins, even though the words “I literally have ice water in my veins,” does appear a number of times in the book. I would have thought it was clear that when I say literally I mean figuratively. Nonetheless, I am a stickler for accuracy and note it here simply in the name of comprehensiveness.
I have not had passed down to me through the centuries a Sword of Reclamation, a Stone of Righteousness, a Scroll of Royal Heritage, or a Crown of Authority.
I did not ‘ace’ my SAT or ACT or GRE or LSAT or GMAT. In the rush of publication I had confused these tests with my performance in a spelling bee in eighth grade. Still skeptical? Perhaps you would finally be satisfied if I showed you the trophy?
Polling has not shown that I am regarded among most voting age respondents as one of the Great Romancers of the New Century. This data was more in line with a self-assessment survey I had gone to some trouble over.
I have never killed a werewolf, nor do I keep a silver bullet in the glove compartment of my car ‘just in case,’ though it doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
Angelina Jolie never dated me, nor mourned our breakup, nor has my name tattooed just behind her left knee. The research department really fell down on the job here. I was thinking of another Angie, Angie Sandifer in sixth grade who, now that I think about it, also did none of those things.
I did not room with Johnny Depp at Clarksville Junior College, nor teach him everything he knows about acting.
Finally, I was never actually part of the NASA manned spacecraft program, though I admired it, nor am I an astronaut whose career was cut short by a hamstring pull. My apologies to anyone who came to believe this simply because I said so over and over.
I cannot imagine that this doesn’t answer any question of accuracy regarding this memoir, and I ask only that you consider the underlying character of the author in bringing forward any more minuscule complaints.
