Category Archives: Hobbies and pasttimes

On making bread

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I know I can buy a loaf for less than it costs me to make a loaf, but I don’t care. There is something transcendental about mixing water, yeast, salt, and flour and kneading it into a loaf of bread. Bread has always been a synecdoche for all food, for wages, for a living. Bread is a central part of Christian symbolism and a major part of worship. The transformation of wheat into bread is mysterious, complex, and fills me with wonder. As a small child I watched my mother make bread, knowing full well that she was repeating the lessons she learned as her own mother made bread, who was repeating the recipe and actions that her mother had taught her. I came to making bread later in life, but I had learned my lessons. I believe that making bread is a tradition that should be honored, not forgotten. I don’t mind getting messy, or getting out the bread board, or spending time with my hands in the dough. I don’t mind that it takes hours to get a loaf mixed, kneaded, and baked. I don’t measure anything exactly. I love the idea that no two loaves are ever exactly the same and that I don’t have to “wonder” about how many weird and dangerous chemicals have been added to the bread to keep it soft and fresh for weeks. I love to let the bread rise under a dishtowel while I do something else. I don’t kid myself: I am not an expert baker, but I assume that bread has been made this way for many millennia, and I love being a part of that tradition. Bread is such a fundamental part of the human condition–the variations are almost infinite. Sometimes I had cinnamon, other times cardamon adds a different twist to the taste. Whole wheat flour gives the bread a nutty flavor that is best savored slowly. Kneading bread is a nice workout, therapeutic some days because you can really put your whole body and spirit into pounding, folding, and working the dough. The best part of making your own bread, at least for me, is the sense of accomplishing something original, creating a new thing with my own art, my own recipe, my own energy and effort. There are so few things over which any of us have any control, but baking bread, at least for a moment, can give any of us the illusory feeling of power and control. Yet it is not a complete mirage because at the end of the process you have a couple of loaves of bread that you can slice and eat and enjoy. The process of bread-making is an odd interplay of dry ingredients interlocking with water that creates a whole new thing when fire and heat are added. Who would suspect that flour, with a little coaxing from yeast and salt, could be turned into a crunchy, springy, nutty, moist, chewy phenomenon that can light up as a midnight snack or help wake up a sleepy day beside a cup of coffee? I like my own bread toasted with a little real butter on it. My own bread is nothing like the bread you can buy in a store. My loaves are not perfect, a bit crusty, unsliced, doesn’t come in a plastic bag with a twist-tie closing off the open end. Making bread grounds me in a way that my digitally mediated existence doesn’t. Currently, my bread has been divided into two loaves which are rising in the oven just before I bake them. They’ll be ready around midnight.

On making bread

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I know I can buy a loaf for less than it costs me to make a loaf, but I don’t care. There is something transcendental about mixing water, yeast, salt, and flour and kneading it into a loaf of bread. Bread has always been a synecdoche for all food, for wages, for a living. Bread is a central part of Christian symbolism and a major part of worship. The transformation of wheat into bread is mysterious, complex, and fills me with wonder. As a small child I watched my mother make bread, knowing full well that she was repeating the lessons she learned as her own mother made bread, who was repeating the recipe and actions that her mother had taught her. I came to making bread later in life, but I had learned my lessons. I believe that making bread is a tradition that should be honored, not forgotten. I don’t mind getting messy, or getting out the bread board, or spending time with my hands in the dough. I don’t mind that it takes hours to get a loaf mixed, kneaded, and baked. I don’t measure anything exactly. I love the idea that no two loaves are ever exactly the same and that I don’t have to “wonder” about how many weird and dangerous chemicals have been added to the bread to keep it soft and fresh for weeks. I love to let the bread rise under a dishtowel while I do something else. I don’t kid myself: I am not an expert baker, but I assume that bread has been made this way for many millennia, and I love being a part of that tradition. Bread is such a fundamental part of the human condition–the variations are almost infinite. Sometimes I had cinnamon, other times cardamon adds a different twist to the taste. Whole wheat flour gives the bread a nutty flavor that is best savored slowly. Kneading bread is a nice workout, therapeutic some days because you can really put your whole body and spirit into pounding, folding, and working the dough. The best part of making your own bread, at least for me, is the sense of accomplishing something original, creating a new thing with my own art, my own recipe, my own energy and effort. There are so few things over which any of us have any control, but baking bread, at least for a moment, can give any of us the illusory feeling of power and control. Yet it is not a complete mirage because at the end of the process you have a couple of loaves of bread that you can slice and eat and enjoy. The process of bread-making is an odd interplay of dry ingredients interlocking with water that creates a whole new thing when fire and heat are added. Who would suspect that flour, with a little coaxing from yeast and salt, could be turned into a crunchy, springy, nutty, moist, chewy phenomenon that can light up as a midnight snack or help wake up a sleepy day beside a cup of coffee? I like my own bread toasted with a little real butter on it. My own bread is nothing like the bread you can buy in a store. My loaves are not perfect, a bit crusty, unsliced, doesn’t come in a plastic bag with a twist-tie closing off the open end. Making bread grounds me in a way that my digitally mediated existence doesn’t. Currently, my bread has been divided into two loaves which are rising in the oven just before I bake them. They’ll be ready around midnight.

On learning English

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Anyone who learns English as a second language has my admiration. I’ve been trying to learn English as a first language for over fifty years to great or lesser degrees of success or failure, and I have to admit, English is one really tough nut to crack. I’ve studied verbs and nouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, clauses, gerunds, pronouns, relative pronouns, subject pronouns, object pronouns, interjections, slang, and a never ending list of strange grammar points, none of which are consistent, coherent, or logical. Even if the pronunciation weren’t a nightmare, or that all the short vowels weren’t the same, or the silent letters, or all the bizarre idiomatic expressions with prepositions and verbs, or the lack of a true subjunctive, or our inconsistent orthography, or our strange relationship to punctuation, it would still be hard. Don’t even get me started with the helping verb “do” or whatever the word “would” really means because I have no idea. As a bilingual person (I sorta speak a little Spanish–Hablo un pequeño español), I know how hard it is to learn another language that you were not born with. I’ve studied English for years, and it is still a complete mystery to me. Oh sure, I’ve given up trying to make sense of this mess, which is a major load off of my shoulders because trying to understand English is only a little less terrible than trying to learn it as a second language. Perhaps the only thing crazier than English syntax is, well, wait, maybe there is nothing crazier than English syntax. What drives second language learners out of the minds are all of the words that sound to them just about the same, and if that isn’t enough, there are about thirty different brands of English which pronounce all of those similar words just a little bit differently, but not differently enough to be another language, or even another dialect, just differently enough to confuse the hell out of anyone trying to learn English as a second language. And it’s the little words, the in’s and on’s, the about’s and the over’s which can change the meaning of any simple sentence in a radicle way–thinking “over” something is not the same as thinking “about” something. The combinations of verbs and prepositions is almost infinite as are their different meanings. Let’s not even discuss the passive voice in English. Yet English seems to be everywhere and is a requirement for so many kinds of jobs and occupations, so a lot of people have to learn it. Perhaps the hardest thing to learn in English are the idiomatic expressions–short, sweet, and have little or nothing to do with the actual words involved, so knowing the meaning of the words is irrelevant for understanding the meaning of the entire phrase. If you tell someone, “You’re fired,” they should have no actual idea that they are out of a job. What is so maddening, nee, insane about English are all of the small subtleties that contribute to meaning. The pronunciation is impossible, the syntax twisted, the semantics insane, so why would anyone want to learn English? Well, I can think of lots of reasons, but there can only really be one reason that has any value–because they want to. In the meantime, sign up for your English classes–in a college or university, on-line, maybe a pre-packaged course you do on your computer? Sandstone?

On learning English

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Anyone who learns English as a second language has my admiration. I’ve been trying to learn English as a first language for over fifty years to great or lesser degrees of success or failure, and I have to admit, English is one really tough nut to crack. I’ve studied verbs and nouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, clauses, gerunds, pronouns, relative pronouns, subject pronouns, object pronouns, interjections, slang, and a never ending list of strange grammar points, none of which are consistent, coherent, or logical. Even if the pronunciation weren’t a nightmare, or that all the short vowels weren’t the same, or the silent letters, or all the bizarre idiomatic expressions with prepositions and verbs, or the lack of a true subjunctive, or our inconsistent orthography, or our strange relationship to punctuation, it would still be hard. Don’t even get me started with the helping verb “do” or whatever the word “would” really means because I have no idea. As a bilingual person (I sorta speak a little Spanish–Hablo un pequeño español), I know how hard it is to learn another language that you were not born with. I’ve studied English for years, and it is still a complete mystery to me. Oh sure, I’ve given up trying to make sense of this mess, which is a major load off of my shoulders because trying to understand English is only a little less terrible than trying to learn it as a second language. Perhaps the only thing crazier than English syntax is, well, wait, maybe there is nothing crazier than English syntax. What drives second language learners out of the minds are all of the words that sound to them just about the same, and if that isn’t enough, there are about thirty different brands of English which pronounce all of those similar words just a little bit differently, but not differently enough to be another language, or even another dialect, just differently enough to confuse the hell out of anyone trying to learn English as a second language. And it’s the little words, the in’s and on’s, the about’s and the over’s which can change the meaning of any simple sentence in a radicle way–thinking “over” something is not the same as thinking “about” something. The combinations of verbs and prepositions is almost infinite as are their different meanings. Let’s not even discuss the passive voice in English. Yet English seems to be everywhere and is a requirement for so many kinds of jobs and occupations, so a lot of people have to learn it. Perhaps the hardest thing to learn in English are the idiomatic expressions–short, sweet, and have little or nothing to do with the actual words involved, so knowing the meaning of the words is irrelevant for understanding the meaning of the entire phrase. If you tell someone, “You’re fired,” they should have no actual idea that they are out of a job. What is so maddening, nee, insane about English are all of the small subtleties that contribute to meaning. The pronunciation is impossible, the syntax twisted, the semantics insane, so why would anyone want to learn English? Well, I can think of lots of reasons, but there can only really be one reason that has any value–because they want to. In the meantime, sign up for your English classes–in a college or university, on-line, maybe a pre-packaged course you do on your computer? Sandstone?

On the blank page

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Many people fear writing as if it were some arcane art in which only especially initiated adepts were allowed to work. Still others doubt that they have any talent at all, and they don’t want to make a fool of themselves, or that they don’t really have anything to say. They see the blank page as a challenge, not as an opportunity. The blank page stands before all of humanity as a monument to immobility. The difference between writers and non-writers is simple: writers don’t think about the shame of failure or that others will think their words boring or superficial. I have read things that I consider boring and superficial, but I have seldom come across anything that should never have been written at all. Some people will stare at the blank page and feel defeated before they even start because they fear failure, yet they have given themselves over to failure without even having tried. Writing is just words, one right after another, forming sentences, ideas, arguments, but if you never try to write, the blank page is a barrier, a wall you will never climb or pull down. Some people cannot even get past the first word, much less the first sentence. When I have thought my work trite or vacuous, there have been times when I have thrown things away, but for the most part, if I just keep writing, letting the words march across the paper by themselves, I can always go back and edit, throw away the crap, polish the good stuff. The blank page is filled with so much opportunity, so many possibilities, so much creative energy that you must yearn to fill it with discourse, poems, essays, conversations, descriptions, arguments, explanations. Bad writing is always a possibility, but if you never write at all, you are wearing cement shoes and won’t go much of anywhere. I see the blank page as a page already filled with ideas, metaphors, similes and a host of other poetic tropes which are all willing to clarify an to confuse perhaps both at the same time. Words are dark, no question, but we are all playing with the dictionary, so why not split open the dictionary and let the words run wild? The blank page stands up to the creative energy of the literary arts. All the best writers that have ever lived have always lamented the fact that there is nothing new to write about, so if we accept that premiss as a given, then we can stop worrying about whether Seneca or Ovid or Horace wrote about it two thousand years ago. I know I was born late, but there is nothing I, as a writer, can do about that. I accept the blank page as my traveling companion, and I am willing to work hard to fill up that page, sometimes with greater or lesser success. Thinking about the blank page just makes me want to write all that much more, and it also makes me care less about whether anyone likes what I write or not. I have no control over how anyone reads my writing–whether it moves them to cry, or moves them to snicker. I can’t even be sure if they understand what I write, but then again, do I understand what I am writing either? Or if I read this little ramble in two or three years, will I still think the same? Or will that ever matter? Once this is written, it is its piece of art over which I have no control, and that is really what the blank page is really all about, whether we have any control over our work, our ideas, or our lives. The answer is “no”, but then again, this page is no longer blank.

On the blank page

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Many people fear writing as if it were some arcane art in which only especially initiated adepts were allowed to work. Still others doubt that they have any talent at all, and they don’t want to make a fool of themselves, or that they don’t really have anything to say. They see the blank page as a challenge, not as an opportunity. The blank page stands before all of humanity as a monument to immobility. The difference between writers and non-writers is simple: writers don’t think about the shame of failure or that others will think their words boring or superficial. I have read things that I consider boring and superficial, but I have seldom come across anything that should never have been written at all. Some people will stare at the blank page and feel defeated before they even start because they fear failure, yet they have given themselves over to failure without even having tried. Writing is just words, one right after another, forming sentences, ideas, arguments, but if you never try to write, the blank page is a barrier, a wall you will never climb or pull down. Some people cannot even get past the first word, much less the first sentence. When I have thought my work trite or vacuous, there have been times when I have thrown things away, but for the most part, if I just keep writing, letting the words march across the paper by themselves, I can always go back and edit, throw away the crap, polish the good stuff. The blank page is filled with so much opportunity, so many possibilities, so much creative energy that you must yearn to fill it with discourse, poems, essays, conversations, descriptions, arguments, explanations. Bad writing is always a possibility, but if you never write at all, you are wearing cement shoes and won’t go much of anywhere. I see the blank page as a page already filled with ideas, metaphors, similes and a host of other poetic tropes which are all willing to clarify an to confuse perhaps both at the same time. Words are dark, no question, but we are all playing with the dictionary, so why not split open the dictionary and let the words run wild? The blank page stands up to the creative energy of the literary arts. All the best writers that have ever lived have always lamented the fact that there is nothing new to write about, so if we accept that premiss as a given, then we can stop worrying about whether Seneca or Ovid or Horace wrote about it two thousand years ago. I know I was born late, but there is nothing I, as a writer, can do about that. I accept the blank page as my traveling companion, and I am willing to work hard to fill up that page, sometimes with greater or lesser success. Thinking about the blank page just makes me want to write all that much more, and it also makes me care less about whether anyone likes what I write or not. I have no control over how anyone reads my writing–whether it moves them to cry, or moves them to snicker. I can’t even be sure if they understand what I write, but then again, do I understand what I am writing either? Or if I read this little ramble in two or three years, will I still think the same? Or will that ever matter? Once this is written, it is its piece of art over which I have no control, and that is really what the blank page is really all about, whether we have any control over our work, our ideas, or our lives. The answer is “no”, but then again, this page is no longer blank.

On the haunted house

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Let’s just get a couple of things clear, I don’t believe in ghosts or haunted houses, although I’ve had experiences with both. As an objective empiricist, I reject outright most supernatural phenomenon, especially clairvoyance, fortune-telling, and extra-sensory perception. Since nobody can successfully pick six numbers in a lottery, ever, I rest assured that all of that is unmitigated hooey and nonsense. Haunted houses are, however, another matter entirely. I live in a new house, currently, that is completely antiseptic and clean, no creepy anything going on anywhere in the place. Older houses, however, are another matter entirely. The theme of the haunted house is ubiquitous in Hollywood and popular literature—King, Straub, Lovecraft, Poe, which has even taken this motif to the extremes of haunted spaceships, haunted cars, and haunted planets. A motif which is so powerful and emotional can only be so if it coincides in some real way with the experience of the movie going public. I’m dead sure that most people would publicly say that they have no experience with spirits or at least they wouldn’t admit to having experience with spirits or ghosts. I have no doubt that most “ghost” shows on reality television are fraudulent and melodramatic and have no relationship with any kind of reality or naturally occurring phenomenon. I myself will often dismiss the claims by those who swear that they had experiences with ghosts or other-worldly apparitions. We all get creeped out by dark, empty houses that are filled with strange shadows, creaky structures, odd drafts, dark corners, lonely spaces, dusty attics, and creepy basements. We let our imaginations run wild, the skin on the back of our necks gets goose bumps, and we start to imagine all sorts of things that are not there, were never there, that only exist as figments of our imagination. We are nervous, emotional creatures, fearful of our own shadows, afraid of being alone, perhaps unaccustomed to being alone. Our imaginations run wild. I say all of that to say this: are there experiences that go beyond our earthly senses, that exist as real physical phenomena, that as of now, given our science such as it is, we do not understand. Maybe words such as ghosts and spirits and apparitions and poltergeists are not exactly appropriate for describing actual physical that as yet we do not understand. If someone from the Classical period were to experience our contemporary civilization of computers, cell phones, planes, television, wi-fi and all the rest, I’m sure they would think it all supernatural, when, in reality, it is all only too real, based on our science and technology. How foolish and undeveloped our civilization will appear to anthropologists of the fortieth century. My own anecdotes are irrelevant and inconsequential, but I have experienced things that go beyond irrational fears and an overactive imagination. I suspect that someday we will find an explanation for all these odd experiences which we would characterize as hauntings. In the meantime, however, it might be a good idea to keep an open-mind, to listen when others speak, to open up our feelings to a larger world that may not be solely confined to the physical, tangible mundane world of our day-to-day routine. I also don’t think that it hurts to remain skeptical and cynical when someone’s claims to have had a “haunting” experience because I am sure that most of those “experiences” are really nothing more than emotion tied into an over-active imagination, excessive adrenaline, sleep deprivation, too much spicy food, an overdose of slasher movies, and the need to feel loved and needed. All I can say is that I’ve been in houses where something is going on, and I also work in such a place (built 1886), but I really haven’t the slightest idea of what might be really going on. Sleep tight and take this little “note” with a grain of salt.

On the haunted house

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Let’s just get a couple of things clear, I don’t believe in ghosts or haunted houses, although I’ve had experiences with both. As an objective empiricist, I reject outright most supernatural phenomenon, especially clairvoyance, fortune-telling, and extra-sensory perception. Since nobody can successfully pick six numbers in a lottery, ever, I rest assured that all of that is unmitigated hooey and nonsense. Haunted houses are, however, another matter entirely. I live in a new house, currently, that is completely antiseptic and clean, no creepy anything going on anywhere in the place. Older houses, however, are another matter entirely. The theme of the haunted house is ubiquitous in Hollywood and popular literature—King, Straub, Lovecraft, Poe, which has even taken this motif to the extremes of haunted spaceships, haunted cars, and haunted planets. A motif which is so powerful and emotional can only be so if it coincides in some real way with the experience of the movie going public. I’m dead sure that most people would publicly say that they have no experience with spirits or at least they wouldn’t admit to having experience with spirits or ghosts. I have no doubt that most “ghost” shows on reality television are fraudulent and melodramatic and have no relationship with any kind of reality or naturally occurring phenomenon. I myself will often dismiss the claims by those who swear that they had experiences with ghosts or other-worldly apparitions. We all get creeped out by dark, empty houses that are filled with strange shadows, creaky structures, odd drafts, dark corners, lonely spaces, dusty attics, and creepy basements. We let our imaginations run wild, the skin on the back of our necks gets goose bumps, and we start to imagine all sorts of things that are not there, were never there, that only exist as figments of our imagination. We are nervous, emotional creatures, fearful of our own shadows, afraid of being alone, perhaps unaccustomed to being alone. Our imaginations run wild. I say all of that to say this: are there experiences that go beyond our earthly senses, that exist as real physical phenomena, that as of now, given our science such as it is, we do not understand. Maybe words such as ghosts and spirits and apparitions and poltergeists are not exactly appropriate for describing actual physical that as yet we do not understand. If someone from the Classical period were to experience our contemporary civilization of computers, cell phones, planes, television, wi-fi and all the rest, I’m sure they would think it all supernatural, when, in reality, it is all only too real, based on our science and technology. How foolish and undeveloped our civilization will appear to anthropologists of the fortieth century. My own anecdotes are irrelevant and inconsequential, but I have experienced things that go beyond irrational fears and an overactive imagination. I suspect that someday we will find an explanation for all these odd experiences which we would characterize as hauntings. In the meantime, however, it might be a good idea to keep an open-mind, to listen when others speak, to open up our feelings to a larger world that may not be solely confined to the physical, tangible mundane world of our day-to-day routine. I also don’t think that it hurts to remain skeptical and cynical when someone’s claims to have had a “haunting” experience because I am sure that most of those “experiences” are really nothing more than emotion tied into an over-active imagination, excessive adrenaline, sleep deprivation, too much spicy food, an overdose of slasher movies, and the need to feel loved and needed. All I can say is that I’ve been in houses where something is going on, and I also work in such a place (built 1886), but I really haven’t the slightest idea of what might be really going on. Sleep tight and take this little “note” with a grain of salt.

On coincidence and probability

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We all have weird and strange stories about amazing coincidences that have happened to us. In fact, we often think there is something to the highly improbable coincidences that happen to us every day. I went to a hockey game in Austin, Texas the other day. I started talking to a couple at the game, and it turns out that the woman and I share the exact same birthday–both day and year. It only took me 53 years and ten months to finally meet someone with my exact same birthday. We are both from southern Minnesota and original Minnesota North Star fans. We think that coincidences are bizarre because we fail to understand the difference between impossible and improbable. Impossible means it can’t happen, improbable means that no matter how unlikely, it could still happen. In other words, just because a think is improbable, such as getting an actual royal flush in poker, doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Just a couple of years ago while playing Texas Hold’em with the family, I got an actual royal flush–improbably, but not impossible. Improbability can create the illusion in our minds that a random event–running into someone with your exact same birthday or name–is impossible, but the impossible is actually quite rare and even more difficult to prove. No matter how improbable running into someone from your home town in a department store 6,000 miles from home might be, it is still possible, and it happened to me. Where human perception goes wrong is its supposition that the improbable is impossible, but improbability is not a test for impossibility. Given the fact that improbably things happen all the time–winning the lottery, for example–coincidences happen all the time, but they have no intrinsic meaning that is odd or strange. The occurrence of coincidences is just a simple case of beating the odds, but because each coincidental event is independent of all other events, there is no correlation between any two given coincidences. In other words, just because you flip five “heads” in a row, this says nothing whatsoever about what will happen the sixth flip. As humans we would like to imbue the events in our lives with meaning–that it was pre-ordained, or destiny, or whatever–because without meaning, we drift from place to place, person to person, wondering what we are all about. How can we make a good decision if everything is just chance? By thinking this way, we give weight and meaning to coincidences that have no meaning, seemed impossible, but were really only improbable. How many times have you gone to the grocery store in your neighborhood and not run into anyone you know? Or the opposite–you go to the grocery store and you run into everyone you know. Both scenarios are just as probable and just as meaningless. Some days you know all the answers on Jeopardy, other days you need the dunce cap. Ever find something that has been lost for twenty-years? Coincidence, not really. Events are governed by parameters, and even the most random meeting with a long lost relative while buying dish detergent in a store in Chicago, is not at all random and totally possible. True randomness, such as the pattern of raindrops on a sidewalk (some overlap while leaving dry spots) or the birthdays of a hundred people at a hockey game (some will coincide while many days will be vacant), is rare if not impossible. We are constantly making decisions which alter our world, our choices, our locations, our motivations, our habits, all of which drives us into communion with others with the same habits, vices, and interests. If you think about it, improbabilities and randomness only serve to misguide our perception of a chaotic world where the vast majority of the things that happen to us have no real meaning at all.

On coincidence and probability

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We all have weird and strange stories about amazing coincidences that have happened to us. In fact, we often think there is something to the highly improbable coincidences that happen to us every day. I went to a hockey game in Austin, Texas the other day. I started talking to a couple at the game, and it turns out that the woman and I share the exact same birthday–both day and year. It only took me 53 years and ten months to finally meet someone with my exact same birthday. We are both from southern Minnesota and original Minnesota North Star fans. We think that coincidences are bizarre because we fail to understand the difference between impossible and improbable. Impossible means it can’t happen, improbable means that no matter how unlikely, it could still happen. In other words, just because a think is improbable, such as getting an actual royal flush in poker, doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Just a couple of years ago while playing Texas Hold’em with the family, I got an actual royal flush–improbably, but not impossible. Improbability can create the illusion in our minds that a random event–running into someone with your exact same birthday or name–is impossible, but the impossible is actually quite rare and even more difficult to prove. No matter how improbable running into someone from your home town in a department store 6,000 miles from home might be, it is still possible, and it happened to me. Where human perception goes wrong is its supposition that the improbable is impossible, but improbability is not a test for impossibility. Given the fact that improbably things happen all the time–winning the lottery, for example–coincidences happen all the time, but they have no intrinsic meaning that is odd or strange. The occurrence of coincidences is just a simple case of beating the odds, but because each coincidental event is independent of all other events, there is no correlation between any two given coincidences. In other words, just because you flip five “heads” in a row, this says nothing whatsoever about what will happen the sixth flip. As humans we would like to imbue the events in our lives with meaning–that it was pre-ordained, or destiny, or whatever–because without meaning, we drift from place to place, person to person, wondering what we are all about. How can we make a good decision if everything is just chance? By thinking this way, we give weight and meaning to coincidences that have no meaning, seemed impossible, but were really only improbable. How many times have you gone to the grocery store in your neighborhood and not run into anyone you know? Or the opposite–you go to the grocery store and you run into everyone you know. Both scenarios are just as probable and just as meaningless. Some days you know all the answers on Jeopardy, other days you need the dunce cap. Ever find something that has been lost for twenty-years? Coincidence, not really. Events are governed by parameters, and even the most random meeting with a long lost relative while buying dish detergent in a store in Chicago, is not at all random and totally possible. True randomness, such as the pattern of raindrops on a sidewalk (some overlap while leaving dry spots) or the birthdays of a hundred people at a hockey game (some will coincide while many days will be vacant), is rare if not impossible. We are constantly making decisions which alter our world, our choices, our locations, our motivations, our habits, all of which drives us into communion with others with the same habits, vices, and interests. If you think about it, improbabilities and randomness only serve to misguide our perception of a chaotic world where the vast majority of the things that happen to us have no real meaning at all.