The only thing scary about Friday the 13th is the thought that they might never stop making these horrible movies.

Apologies. Apologies.

That title is a little harsh. I’m not talking about you, per se, and I certainly didn’t mean any disrespect to all you friggin’ lame brain moronic phobics out there.

Oops. Sorry. That was a typo. I mean friggatriskaidekaphobics, or people with an irrational and ridiculous fear of Friday the 13th.

You and your strange little cult have done a good job of smearing the bad name of my favorite number. For example, you cannot find a thirteenth floor in most hotels or any casino. Most hospitals don’t have a Room 13. And there are more Jason Vorhees ‘Friday the 13th’ horror movies than I have living relatives. And in the spirit of dispelling the myths, let me share with you 13 facts – some true, some slightly damning, and most utterly ridiculous – about your little irrational fear (and thanks to LiveScience.com for most of them). And don’t get me started on Thir13en Ghosts, 13th Floor, and 13 Going on 30. (Okay, maybe that last one gets a pass.)

Anyway, in the spirit of dispelling the myths, let me share with you 13 facts – some true, some slightly damning, and most utterly ridiculous – about your little irrational fear. (And thanks to LiveScience.com for most of them!)

1. The British Navy built a ship named Friday the 13th. On its maiden voyage, the vessel left dock on a Friday the 13th, and was never heard from again.

That’s not really 13’s fault is it? The way I see it, there are many, many rational explanations for this: First off, there were no cell phones back then. Maybe they wanted to call home and explain their decision to take on young, nubile, tanned Caribbean wives and never return to cold, wet England, and they just couldn’t figure out how to get the message back? Or perhaps these guys were all gay or bi-curious and they opened a cask of rum and things got a little rowdy and they decided to go live on a deserted island where they wouldn’t be judged for their alternative lifestyle? Blame nature. Blame God. Blame their parents. STOP JUDGING THEM AND STOP BLAMING FRIDAY THE 13^TH.

Without these guys, "Houston, we have a problem" would be just another run-of-the-mill sentence. Which one is Kevin Bacon?

 

 

2. The ill-fated Apollo 13 launched at 13:13 CST on Apr. 11, 1970. The sum of the date’s digits (4-11-70) is 13 (as in 4+1+1+7+0 = 13). And the explosion that crippled the spacecraft occurred on April 13 (not a Friday). The crew did make it back to Earth safely, however.

 

Ummmm….Okay…  The math equation on this is a bit “excuse me while I act delusional and have a total schizophrenic moment” and besides that, the last line is the only one that actually matters: THE CREW MADE IT BACK TO EARTH SAFELY. You know what happens when you survive a very public near-disaster? That’s right. Book deal, baby. And a movie where you’re played by Tom Hanks or Kevin Bacon. I call that LUCKY

 

 

 

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3. Fear of Friday the 13th – one of the most popular myths in science is called paraskavedekatriaphobia as well as friggatriskaidekaphobia.

I prefer the alternative spelling/pronounciation of frigginlamebrainmoronphobia.

4. Quarterback Dan Marino wore No. 13 throughout his career with the Miami Dolphins. Despite being a superb quarterback (some call him one of the best ever), he got to the Super Bowl just once, in 1985, and was trounced 38-16 by the San Francisco 49ers and Joe Montana (who wore No. 16 and won all four Super Bowls he played in).   

Yaaaaawwwwwnnn. And you point is…??? Thanks LiveScience for a totally worthless, useless, and boring point. By the way, 38+16 = 54 = 5+4 = 9, which means…ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I just thought you’d like to know.

Butch Cassidy circa 1893. And you know where I found this? On a site called Legends of America. That's right, LEGENDS. Take that, Friday the 13th haters.

7. Fidel Castro was born on Friday, Aug. 13, 1926.

8. Vanessa Wolf, legendary blogger and soon to be best-selling author, Nobel Prize Winner, multi-platinum recording artist (thanks to the marvels of modern technology), and multi-millionaire was born on Friday, October 13, 1972.

Suck on that.

8. President Franklin D. Roosevelt would not travel on the 13th day of any month and would never host 13 guests at a meal. Napoleon and Herbert Hoover were also triskaidekaphobic, with an abnormal fear of the number 13.

Losers.

9. Superstitious diners in Paris can hire a quatorzieme, or professional 14th guest.

Oh, for the love of Pete. You PAY an attractive ‘professional’ to come to dinner and sit by your most important guest and keep him company all night and allegedly this is superstitious!? In this country, we call that an escort service.

Heidi Fleiss was probably just trying to provide some 14th guests to even things out. In case you were wondering, she was born on Thursday, December 30, 1965. 12 + 30 + 19 + 65 = 126 = NINE. (seriously though, is that not getting a little wierd? All the nines?)

 

 

10. Mark Twain once was the 13th guest at a dinner party. A friend warned him not to go. “It was bad luck,” Twain later told the friend. “They only had food for 12.”

 

The first rational thing on this list. RIP, Sam.

11. Woodrow Wilson considered 13 his lucky number, though his experience didn’t support such faith. He arrived in Normandy, France on Friday, Dec. 13, 1918, for peace talks, only to return with a treaty he couldn’t get Congress to sign. (The ship’s crew wanted to dock the next day due to superstitions, Fernsler said.) He toured the United States to rally support for the treaty, and while traveling, suffered a near-fatal stroke.

Wilson: a president I know nothing about (in fact, so little I’m going to have to Google him because I can’t even come up with a spontaneous fact to tie into this). Anyway, are peace treaties and strokes the fault of the number 13? I think not. And, according to the search I just did, the man had a long history of cerebral vascular disease, and was pretty much the King of Strokes. The one that paralyzed the left side of his body happened on September 25, 1919. 9 + 25 + 19 + 19 =  72 = 7+2 = 9.

Nine again, eh?

I smell a rat…

Batten the hatches, because this is the year of 09/09/09.

12. The number 13 suffers from its position after 12, according to numerologists who consider the latter to be a complete number – 12 months in a year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 gods of Olympus, 12 labors of Hercules, 12 tribes of Israel, 12 apostles of Jesus, 12 days of Christmas and 12 eggs in a dozen.

Whatever. The bakers dozen is far superior to the dozen and everybody knows it.

13. The seals on the back of a dollar bill include 13 steps on the pyramid, 13 stars above the eagle’s head, 13 war arrows in the eagle’s claw and 13 leaves on the olive branch. So far there’s been no evidence tying these long-ago design decisions to the present economic situation.

But I’m sure some whack job will try.

Meanwhile, the origins of this nonsense are believed to be tied to the Biblical Last Supper.  However, everybody knows that Judas had a serious holy wine problem, and didn’t show up at the Supper until several minutes after the group had started disbanding, and plus, he was totally sh*t-faced drunk. Sure, he nibbled some leftovers off the plates and stuffed a magical loaf Jesus made for him down his robe ‘for later’, but technically, there were really only twelve guests consistently at the table.

I hope that clears up some confusion and puts your mind at ease.

And if not, then go get yourself a prescription for Xanax, cause you’re gonna need it. Good (or bad) things come in threes, and 2009 brings three Friday the 13ths: today, next month, and one more in November. Enjoy!

is that as much as you reject superstition, you possess a certain streak of vulnerability.

Throughout my childhood, the other kids would tell me I’d be dead by the time I was 13. I think we can probably thank the Friday the 13^th movies (and maybe the Halloween movies a little bit, seeing as I was born in October) for that horrible nonsense. I don’t recall ever actually believing it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it wasn’t a little disconcerting. I do remember the first time I was able to respond, “I AM thirteen!” Then it my expiration date was upped to 16. Then 21. After that, I got wise and stopped mentioning I was born on Friday the 13th.

Meanwhile, as I believe I’ve told you, I collect sand. Previously, this was innocuous habit. Maybe even a little bit charming. Now it’s just burdensome – literally (my backpack ain’t carrying itself) and figuratively.

Santorini, where the buildings are white, the dogs are friendly, and the wind is howling, has not just black…but RED sand. RED. I once drug someone on a four-hour sun-scorched third-degree burn-inducing hike for some green sand. It goes without saying that I am no dilettante in that regard. In addition, red sand is a one-of-a-kind attraction. The closest thing I have is some dark orange sand from Moab (which also bares the distinction of being my only non-oceanic sand).

On the other hand, there’s a small part of me that struggles to induce reason. “You can come back,” it says. “The red sand isn’t going anywhere. You can get it another time. Who cares about sand? You don’t need the extra weight.”

This part is a fool. I hear the red grains calling to me. I am like the creepy monster thing in the Lord of the Rings movies: I MUST POSSESS A BAGGIE OF THE RED SAND.

Naturally, getting the red sand is no small chore. First there’s a volcano in the way. Admittedly, it’s been inactive since the 1940s. But still.

Secondly, it’s the off-season, and the guy from my accommodations (Niko) could be exaggerating, but he tells me that by bus it takes two buses in each direction and the timing works out that you spend almost six hours there. It’s warmish (22/low 70s), but six hours on any beach in any weather is too much for me.

Third, it’s almost my birthday. And memories of doom and gloom and untimely passings have come back to me unexpectedly. Not that I plan on going anywhere anytime soon. I think I’m just being prudent. You see, getting the sand requires renting an ATV (four-wheeler). Niko

claims this is like “driving a small car.” However, in response to my wild-eyed barrage of stupid questions, he’s advised that perhaps I wait a day until the wind dies down. Maybe I should go Monday – on my very own birthday – as “You have to be very careful in the wind so that you don’t not blow off the mountain.”

You don’t say?

In that regard, waiting sounds like good advice.

Nonetheless, barring certain disaster, I will rent the ATV and go for it on Monday. I can only imagine that some day when there’s a museum for the tourists to come and see where I lived, they will marvel at my extensive collection of sand.

(And it’s these kind of delusions that keep me going…)