On
my seventeenth birthday, my Uncle Morton built a carrousel in the middle
of my bedroom. Morton, as he did with many things, mistook my obsession
with numbers to be one for plastic, smiling horses. I am almost
positive I never asked him to take on such a ludicrous feat, but no can
deter a man who has spent 16.95234 years in a basement, feasting on
thousands of ripe tennis balls, from building a carrousel for his
teenage nephew.