PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

I lied. I shouldn’t have. But I did. I’m sorry. That whole “Buffa is

in Sydney” thing last week was a total fabrication. I was a no-show

because it was Friday the 13th.

Yes, it’s true. I’m superstitious. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not

ashamed of it either. Silly, isn’t it? Here I am, a worldly, wise, high

school graduate (OK, it’s a GED, but it still counts), and I still

believe in omens.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not obsessive about it. Last week was more a

matter of caution than triskaidekaphobia. What do you mean what does that

mean? “Triskaidekaphobia.” It’s an irrational fear of Triscuits. Just

kidding. It’s an irrational fear of the number 13. And when the 13 in

question happens to fall on a Friday, it’s a double whammy.

Who started this anyway? An oft-repeated story is that it all began

with the Last Supper. Jesus and the 12 apostles totaled 13 people in the room. Worse yet, the apostle Judas was the 13th to arrive. Come Friday

afternoon, Christ would be put to death, and Friday the 13th became a

cursed day, except for Jamie Lee Curtis and her broker, of course.

That may explain the shoddy reputation of Friday the 13th, but the

number 13 was considered unlucky centuries before that.

From very early times -- we’re talking about way before Bloomingdale’s

here -- 13 symbolized disruption and was regarded as an “unreliable”

number. Twelve, on the other hand, was a nice, clean-cut number that any

mother could love -- 12 months in the year; 12 hours on the clock; 12

signs of the zodiac; 12 tribes of Israel; 12 knights of the Roundtable;

12 items in a dozen; 12 readers of this column, and so on.

OK, fine. But where do all the other superstitions come from? As

usual, no one really knows, other than the fact that they’ve been around

a very long time.

Many of them are just too bizarre to figure out -- tossing salt over

your shoulder, never stepping on a crack in the sidewalk, etc., etc. But

there are some recurring themes. Death was very popular. There are more

old wives’ tales about deadly omens than there were old wives. Why is it

always “old wives”’ tales, by the way? Didn’t old husbands have any

tales? Were they too smart to believe in omens, or too stupid to know

any? Maybe there weren’t any old husbands. Maybe they ignored all the

omens and died young. Stop asking me all these questions. I’m getting

dizzy.

If a bird flies into a room through an open window, a death will

shortly follow. The same is true if a mirror falls and shatters by

itself, or if three sea gulls are flying together directly overhead.

Frankly, I think it’s always a bad idea to look at sea gulls flying

directly overhead.

A dream of death is a sign of birth, a dream of birth is a sign of

death. Fine. But what does a dream about dreams mean? If three people are

photographed together, the one in the middle will die first. Great. Now

you tell me. The moment someone dies, all the windows should be opened to

allow the soul to leave. Oh, sure, and let every bird in the neighborhood

in? Are you nuts? Enough about death. It’s depressing.

All these folk tales are strange, but many of them are downright

loopy. Cut an apple in half and count the seeds. That’s how many children

you’ll have. Get out of bed on the same side you got in or bad luck will

follow. It’s bad luck to put a hat on a bed. Now wait a minute. Exactly

how did the old wives come up with that? Did some poor soul come home 200

years ago, toss his hat on the bed and get struck by lightning? Was that

the problem? Wait. I know. He came in, said, “Honey, I’m home,” tossed

his hat on the bed, turned toward the window and was scared to death by

three sea gulls flying into the room. Is that what happened?

Never take a broom with you when you move. Throw it out and buy a new

one. A single woman who sleeps with a piece of wedding cake under her

pillow will dream of her future husband. Maybe, but she’ll also have a

mess to clean up in the morning. Did the old wives think about that?

Apparently not. I’ll bet they just made the old husbands clean it up.

Touch blue, your wish comes true. Say goodbye to someone on a bridge,

and you’ll never see them again. A sudden chill means that someone just

walked over your grave. My God these people were depressing. No wonder

the average life span was 39 years.

I like the rhymes. They’re very cool. Totally daffy, but cool. Knife

falls, gentleman calls; fork falls, lady calls; spoon falls, baby calls.

Rainbow in the eastern sky, tomorrow will be fine and dry. Rainbow in the

west that gleams, rain tomorrow falls in streams. One for sorrow. Two for

joy. Three for a letter. Four for a boy. Five for silver. Six for gold.

Seven for a secret, never to hold. And the o7 piece de resistance f7 --

Monday’s child is fair of face. Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Thursday’s child has far to go.

Friday’s child is loving and giving. Saturday’s child works hard for a

living. But the child who’s born on the Sabbath day is fair and wise,

good and gay. Hmm.

I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays. He

can be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.