Category Archives: good karma

On do-overs

Posted on by

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

Posted on by

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 crazy eights

Posted on by

Just recently a student asked me how to play Crazy Eights. Needless to say, I was filled with lots of mixed emotions. First, the very fact that this student did not know how to play a standard game of my childhood made me reflect on how things change from generation to generation. The digital revolution has sidelined these simple analogue games that I still cherish. All of that means that I belong to a bygone era that will never return. Computers, video games, digitally mediated communication have pushed “cards” out of the national consciousness. That the student did not know how to play such a simple game also made me ponder the complexity of a society that has no use for simple entertainment, here represented by cards and their analogue existence of four suits and thirteen individual designs. “Cards” are now digital, and you can play all of the digital poker you want. Crazy Eights is a simple game, but perhaps that is what makes it complex. You give each player eight cards, you set up a “draw” pile (face down) and a “play” card, which, in turn, each player must either match the suit or the number. When you run out of cards, you win. You may change the suit by playing an “eight.” If you can’t play, you must pick a card until you can play. Whoever plays their last card first, wins. When explained in such basic terms, it seems rather boring, but let me assure you that my friends and I got hours and hours of entertainment out of this simple game. Perhaps the pleasure one derives from the game is less about winning, per se, and more about the social interaction of playing the game. You don’t need any screens of any kind to play, but you do need a deck of cards, which is very old technology. You need to learn to shuffle and deal. You need someone with whom you might play.

On crazy eights

Posted on by

Just recently a student asked me how to play Crazy Eights. Needless to say, I was filled with lots of mixed emotions. First, the very fact that this student did not know how to play a standard game of my childhood made me reflect on how things change from generation to generation. The digital revolution has sidelined these simple analogue games that I still cherish. All of that means that I belong to a bygone era that will never return. Computers, video games, digitally mediated communication have pushed “cards” out of the national consciousness. That the student did not know how to play such a simple game also made me ponder the complexity of a society that has no use for simple entertainment, here represented by cards and their analogue existence of four suits and thirteen individual designs. “Cards” are now digital, and you can play all of the digital poker you want. Crazy Eights is a simple game, but perhaps that is what makes it complex. You give each player eight cards, you set up a “draw” pile (face down) and a “play” card, which, in turn, each player must either match the suit or the number. When you run out of cards, you win. You may change the suit by playing an “eight.” If you can’t play, you must pick a card until you can play. Whoever plays their last card first, wins. When explained in such basic terms, it seems rather boring, but let me assure you that my friends and I got hours and hours of entertainment out of this simple game. Perhaps the pleasure one derives from the game is less about winning, per se, and more about the social interaction of playing the game. You don’t need any screens of any kind to play, but you do need a deck of cards, which is very old technology. You need to learn to shuffle and deal. You need someone with whom you might play.

On smells

Posted on by

I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On smells

Posted on by

I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On plastic building blocks (Legos)

Posted on by

I secretly desire seeing the new Lego movie. As a kid, of course, I had a modest set of Legos, blocks of all sizes, shapes, and colors. I liked the wheels because then I could build things that rolled. Not cars, really, but rolling multi-layered and multi-colored sculptures that I could consciously morph into new and bigger and more bizarre shapes. Plastic building blocks offer a challenge for both the imagination and the possible creativity that it might engender. The biggest challenge was often finding a way to keep my latest creation from coming apart and going to pieces. Symmetry was frequently an issue. Finding enough bricks or blocks of a certain color or shape is always an issue. I came to Legos early, before the introduction of the little people, so I either had to build my own people or go without a driver or pilot or Darth Vader or mechanic or fireman. My favorite piece was a giant gray slab upon which I could build many different things, but I also like the thin, white planks that were great for building wings or platforms. The tiniest of the pieces, a “one”, whether round or square, are great for little kids who want to stick something dangerous up their noses (please don’t try this–we have stunt doubles who know what they are doing), but the actual utility of these pieces is doubtful. The best part of Legos is the endless variety of things that you might build, bounded only by your imagination, time, space, and your blocks.

On plastic building blocks (Legos)

Posted on by

I secretly desire seeing the new Lego movie. As a kid, of course, I had a modest set of Legos, blocks of all sizes, shapes, and colors. I liked the wheels because then I could build things that rolled. Not cars, really, but rolling multi-layered and multi-colored sculptures that I could consciously morph into new and bigger and more bizarre shapes. Plastic building blocks offer a challenge for both the imagination and the possible creativity that it might engender. The biggest challenge was often finding a way to keep my latest creation from coming apart and going to pieces. Symmetry was frequently an issue. Finding enough bricks or blocks of a certain color or shape is always an issue. I came to Legos early, before the introduction of the little people, so I either had to build my own people or go without a driver or pilot or Darth Vader or mechanic or fireman. My favorite piece was a giant gray slab upon which I could build many different things, but I also like the thin, white planks that were great for building wings or platforms. The tiniest of the pieces, a “one”, whether round or square, are great for little kids who want to stick something dangerous up their noses (please don’t try this–we have stunt doubles who know what they are doing), but the actual utility of these pieces is doubtful. The best part of Legos is the endless variety of things that you might build, bounded only by your imagination, time, space, and your blocks.

On pizza

Posted on by

Is it just way too easy to write about pizza? I will eat pizza anytime, anywhere, hot or cold, fresh or day-old out of the refrigerator. Pizza has, perhaps, as many incarnations as it has cooks and connoisseurs, with meat, with cheese, with red sauce, with capers or anchovies. I like deep-dish with a thick luxurious crust, but I also like a quick-bake, paper thin cracker crust as well. Is pepperoni the unifying ingredient that links all pizza recipes together? Or is mozzarella the undergirding tune that links all pizza recipes on a universal stage? Some people like their pizza with all sorts of ingredients, including the kitchen sink. Others like their pizza simple with a little sauce, a little cheese, and maybe a hint of basil, uncomplicated. I like my pizza as fresh as possible, so I like to bake my own. Boxed pizza from the supermarket’s frozen food section will do in a pinch, but I’d rather not. For me, the ideal pizza will be deep dish with black olives, sausage, mushrooms, onions, green peppers, pepperoni laid out on a luscious bed of aromatic tomato sauce and covered with a fresh blanket of mozzarella, baked until it is a steaming mass of wonderfulness. Cold beer to accompany.