On supermarket peaches

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I don’t mean to be snarky about this, but supermarkets are experts at presenting perfect fruit for sale that has neither flavor nor juice, which is essentially inedible. So they have perfected the sale of the perfect peach or pear, but since it was picked green, it has no discernable flavor or character. In other words, the pear, peach, or tomato looks perfectly ripe, has no real flaws or damage, but it also has no flavor, other than a sort of woody fibery sensation you get from chewing this fruit. You should spit it out, but you are torn because you did waste your hard-earned money buying it. I mean, who wouldn’t buy a perfect peach? Thing is, however, that because the modern road from orchard to market is so hazardous, the producers pick the fruit green, let it mature in route, and then sell their perfect creations at a nice high price. The consumer gets the short end of the stick because they don’t sample the pretty fruit before they buy it–I mean, who cuts into a peach in the middle of the produce section? I have bought an entire box of strawberries that not only don’t taste like strawberries, they have no discernable taste at all. The peaches are the worst because they look awesome, but they taste like oak. I just ate a pear that was really only the ghost of a pear. I know as a kid we used to buy entire crates of peaches and pears in the summer, and they were juicy and wonderful. You would think that with modern technology, great refrigeration, and fast trucks that this would be possible. At least, you might think that. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. And so is bad fruit.

On supermarket peaches

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I don’t mean to be snarky about this, but supermarkets are experts at presenting perfect fruit for sale that has neither flavor nor juice, which is essentially inedible. So they have perfected the sale of the perfect peach or pear, but since it was picked green, it has no discernable flavor or character. In other words, the pear, peach, or tomato looks perfectly ripe, has no real flaws or damage, but it also has no flavor, other than a sort of woody fibery sensation you get from chewing this fruit. You should spit it out, but you are torn because you did waste your hard-earned money buying it. I mean, who wouldn’t buy a perfect peach? Thing is, however, that because the modern road from orchard to market is so hazardous, the producers pick the fruit green, let it mature in route, and then sell their perfect creations at a nice high price. The consumer gets the short end of the stick because they don’t sample the pretty fruit before they buy it–I mean, who cuts into a peach in the middle of the produce section? I have bought an entire box of strawberries that not only don’t taste like strawberries, they have no discernable taste at all. The peaches are the worst because they look awesome, but they taste like oak. I just ate a pear that was really only the ghost of a pear. I know as a kid we used to buy entire crates of peaches and pears in the summer, and they were juicy and wonderful. You would think that with modern technology, great refrigeration, and fast trucks that this would be possible. At least, you might think that. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. And so is bad fruit.

On ice cream

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Speaking of foods that no one needs, this must be the most delicious example of one. Creamy, sweet, cold, ice cream is pretty much universally liked by everyone who has ever eaten any. Even bad ice cream is still pretty good. I suppose fish-flavored ice cream might be a little creepy and weird, but I’ll bet it’s been tried–anchovy, anyone? My personal favorite, besides chocolate, is anything with lots of butter and pecans in it. Most people, especially when they need to punish themselves, can eat an entire vat of ice cream, regardless of what the consequences might be–obesity, diabetes, heart disease, lactose intolerance, and death, of course. Common sense just seems to go straight out the window when ice cream comes into picture, including metaphors that make sense. Ice cream is food exaggeration taken to the nth degree. Filled with copious amounts of pure animal fat and dangerous amounts of sugar, this frozen concoction is a slippery slope toward decadence and corruption. Only Dorian Gray could ever eat all the ice cream he ever wanted and, at the same time, ignore the consequences. We kid ourselves and lie to ourselves, willing to justify more ice cream with any excuse no matter how lame and stupid our reasons might be. You know, you think it’s worth it, those few minutes of pleasure while you eat that huge cone of yoghurt and lemon ice cream, but later you feel guilty and hateful because you know you did a bad thing to your body. This is, of course, the great paradox of eating ice cream, that you love the ephemeral moment as the ice cream passes over your tongue, but you despise yourself for ingesting another 800 calories that you never needed in the first place.

On ice cream

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Speaking of foods that no one needs, this must be the most delicious example of one. Creamy, sweet, cold, ice cream is pretty much universally liked by everyone who has ever eaten any. Even bad ice cream is still pretty good. I suppose fish-flavored ice cream might be a little creepy and weird, but I’ll bet it’s been tried–anchovy, anyone? My personal favorite, besides chocolate, is anything with lots of butter and pecans in it. Most people, especially when they need to punish themselves, can eat an entire vat of ice cream, regardless of what the consequences might be–obesity, diabetes, heart disease, lactose intolerance, and death, of course. Common sense just seems to go straight out the window when ice cream comes into picture, including metaphors that make sense. Ice cream is food exaggeration taken to the nth degree. Filled with copious amounts of pure animal fat and dangerous amounts of sugar, this frozen concoction is a slippery slope toward decadence and corruption. Only Dorian Gray could ever eat all the ice cream he ever wanted and, at the same time, ignore the consequences. We kid ourselves and lie to ourselves, willing to justify more ice cream with any excuse no matter how lame and stupid our reasons might be. You know, you think it’s worth it, those few minutes of pleasure while you eat that huge cone of yoghurt and lemon ice cream, but later you feel guilty and hateful because you know you did a bad thing to your body. This is, of course, the great paradox of eating ice cream, that you love the ephemeral moment as the ice cream passes over your tongue, but you despise yourself for ingesting another 800 calories that you never needed in the first place.

On typing

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I won’t call it keyboarding–I’m too old for that. I learned to type on a small portable Remington while working at a small 100 watt am radio station near Minot, North Dakota. There was really nothing else to do, so I learned to type, even though I had nothing to either write or say. Some might say that is still true today. What I liked about typing was the physicality of punching the keys and watching the letters appear on the paper–an actual piece of blank, white paper–without looking at my fingers or the keys. I developed the same muscle memory that piano players had, but instead of 88 keys, I only had 52, each key was identified with a letter, not a note. I couldn’t play cords, but I could write words in spite of knowing little and saying less. Banging on the keys of a typewriter in order to pound out an essay on post-structuralism is really more satisfying that most existentialists understand. The physical action of punching down the key with one of your fingers give one a very personal connection with the written word. I don’t get that same feeling from contemporary electronic keyboards found on most laptops or connect by wires or bluetooth to a desktop (which are becoming increasingly archaic, just like me). Kids entering college today may have seen a typewriter, but I’m sure they have never used one. Typewriters, along with rotary telephones and cathode ray tube televisions, are relics of the past, inventions that have been dumped on the ash heap of history along with cassette players, eight-track tapes, and 35 mm cameras that still used film to take pictures. A pity.

On a wasp sting

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Yes, I got stung on Saturday morning by a wasp–some sort of paper wasp, I think. Nailed me right in the leg. The pain is also accompanied by a burning sensation that reminds one that wasps are dangerous. Now, I’m rather fortunate in that I am not particularly allergic to bee and wasp stings, but others might not be so lucky. The little devils just love to build their little paper constructions in the most annoying places, such as under my back patio table. They are both persistent and fast, and before I knew it, I was stung and running for my life. You see, wasps, unlike bees, can sting you multiple times because their stingers are smooth, and it does matter how many times they sting you. A single sting for me is more of an annoyance than anything else, but I did take an antihistamine and put hydrocortisone on the sting sight. It hurt for awhile, no question. The question of cohabitating with these dangerous insects, even though they pollinate to a certain extent, is highly problematic because I won’t do it. I got out my can of wasp spray and killed the little interlopers–end of story. I don’t understand their role in the world, they are dangerous, and they build their nests in inappropriate places which pose a real danger to all–people, pets, and other animals. This was not my first tangle with wasps, nor will it be my last, I’m afraid. The whole experience was extremely distastful because I hate killing things.

On a wasp sting

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Yes, I got stung on Saturday morning by a wasp–some sort of paper wasp, I think. Nailed me right in the leg. The pain is also accompanied by a burning sensation that reminds one that wasps are dangerous. Now, I’m rather fortunate in that I am not particularly allergic to bee and wasp stings, but others might not be so lucky. The little devils just love to build their little paper constructions in the most annoying places, such as under my back patio table. They are both persistent and fast, and before I knew it, I was stung and running for my life. You see, wasps, unlike bees, can sting you multiple times because their stingers are smooth, and it does matter how many times they sting you. A single sting for me is more of an annoyance than anything else, but I did take an antihistamine and put hydrocortisone on the sting sight. It hurt for awhile, no question. The question of cohabitating with these dangerous insects, even though they pollinate to a certain extent, is highly problematic because I won’t do it. I got out my can of wasp spray and killed the little interlopers–end of story. I don’t understand their role in the world, they are dangerous, and they build their nests in inappropriate places which pose a real danger to all–people, pets, and other animals. This was not my first tangle with wasps, nor will it be my last, I’m afraid. The whole experience was extremely distastful because I hate killing things.

On do-overs

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While visiting childhood haunts this past summer, returning to a town I haven’t lived in for almost thirty years, I was assailed by a series of memories that left me wanting a do-over or two. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. If you don’t remember the do-over, it was a special anti-mulligan that gave you grace after something went wrong in the game you were playing. Perhaps it was a pitch behind you, or an extra at-bat or just a repeat of a situation that went wrong, maybe a fourth strike. How many times since our childhoods have we needed a do-over? I think it is an inherent part of the human condition to do everything wrong: pick the wrong job, eat the wrong food, choose the wrong car, date the wrong person, and all the while it seemed like we were doing the right thing. It’s as if as children we understand the falibility of the human condition, so we make amends by invoking the do-over. Unfortunately, as adults, we cannot invoke the do-over and must live with all of our mistakes. We desperately need the do-over, but all we can do is lament our terrible decision making from hindsight, which cruelly hangs the correct decision in front us as if we were Tantalus staring at those unobtainable apples, that unreachable water. We hunger for a perfect life filled with perfect decisions, but we have to live with what we have, no do-overs allowed.

On do-overs

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While visiting childhood haunts this past summer, returning to a town I haven’t lived in for almost thirty years, I was assailed by a series of memories that left me wanting a do-over or two. Nostalgia is a terrible thing. If you don’t remember the do-over, it was a special anti-mulligan that gave you grace after something went wrong in the game you were playing. Perhaps it was a pitch behind you, or an extra at-bat or just a repeat of a situation that went wrong, maybe a fourth strike. How many times since our childhoods have we needed a do-over? I think it is an inherent part of the human condition to do everything wrong: pick the wrong job, eat the wrong food, choose the wrong car, date the wrong person, and all the while it seemed like we were doing the right thing. It’s as if as children we understand the falibility of the human condition, so we make amends by invoking the do-over. Unfortunately, as adults, we cannot invoke the do-over and must live with all of our mistakes. We desperately need the do-over, but all we can do is lament our terrible decision making from hindsight, which cruelly hangs the correct decision in front us as if we were Tantalus staring at those unobtainable apples, that unreachable water. We hunger for a perfect life filled with perfect decisions, but we have to live with what we have, no do-overs allowed.