Prison Rules Bingo

Despite my misgivings, I decided to once again embrace the slippery beast that is Bingo (my previous interaction is well documented in the blog below). I know that traditionally you should never go back to the scene of a crime - but I believed that enough time had elapsed to heal my numerological and spherical fear. This turned out to be as good an idea as the first failed bring your child to work day – that by pure happenstance coincided with the very moment the D-Day landings started.

 So I once again sat down with a table covered in confusing colored papers (with more documentation than is required to buy a holiday home in the Tuscan Hills – the Italians do love bureaucracy and red tape). Unfortunately before I had a chance to get the cap off my dabber and make it moist (I feel this is a metaphor for many areas of my life) the first Bingo was called - and we were straight onto the next game. I felt like I was still limbering-up and stretching in the tunnel - as the gun goes off to herald the start of a 100 meters sprint (a race I had paid to be part of).

So this was prison rules bingo, no mercy bingo, a bingo for the elderly and unemployed -who had gained a head start through their seasoned experiences to the conventions of the game. Numbers shot by like tin ducks in a rifle range - one after the other in quick succession; my dabbing was fevered and intense (but not necessarily effective) - I feared I had missed many numbers. The taunting digits jumped around in front of me like a numerologist’s flea circus. I had failed once again to make any inroads with the glittery green ink when the gentleman in front of me called ‘Bingo’. He then called ‘Bingo’ again for a second time in the next game, and then again in the third. By the end of the evening he had won on five separate occasions – this would represent a lifetime of Bingo wins for any mere mortal - but this God of the balls was compiling an early retirement pot. I gripped my dabber hard in frustration and pondered whether to shake him warmly by the throat or rub him for good luck.

 I was kept company in this escapade by a small computer that was issued to me and helped me in the same way a special educational needs teacher helps a struggling student in a remedial math lesson. It would beep when I was just one number short of reaching the El Dorado of Bingo. With every beep I felt a small piece of my life slipping away as I sat patiently willing number 17 to make an appearance. It did not. I was exhausted by the end of the session and craved the need to go and lay down after such feats of concentration married with affects of high blood pressure.

 I did discover though how to get a sweet little 80-year-old lady to say the F word? You get another sweet little 80-year-old lady to yell bingo!

My Dirty Laundry Aired in Public

  Due to reasons far too mundane to elaborate upon on here, for the first time in my life, I was required to visit a launderette in town. I know this is a boring and unrewarding chore for millions all over the globe, but for me, it had all the awe and wonder of the new and unexplored. There is some kind of meditational experience that comes from watching one’s particulars rotating in a mesmerizing miasma of soapy water and colors, the whirl and metronomic wheel of life - presented in front of you like a Buddhist teaching. I found the experience very therapeutic and I left in a calmer more reflective, relaxed mood - the cleaning of one’s clothes and of one’s soul.

  I was of course required to bring a copious supply of quarters, and I stood there like a bubblegum ball addict looking to procure a year’s supply; one after the other the coins were pushed in – I had never seen such fevered feeding since I took my grandmother to a casino for the first time, and placed her in front of the noises and lights of a slot machine with her week’s pension money.

  I’m an intelligent guy and I know how to separate my laundry, so tell me how does one phantom item of clothing end up staring up at me from the desolate emptiness of the dirty washing basket – my OCD required me to check that basket at least three times. I can only be left feeling that this is some sort of cruel joke played on me by the laundry gods, but I bowed before the altar of the single sock and sacrificed a dust bunny to lint heaven before I went - and I still found an item I had left behind.

  I am a great procrastinator - when the writing is going really well, the laundry piles up. Thus if you happen to see me in the launderette, please do not ask me how my latest book is coming along.

Lucky Strikes

Does anyone know if meteor strikes are more prevalent in the Midwest? I know this is how Superman arrived (because I have read the comic) but that was Smallville, Kansas. I ask because the garage sale season is upon us - and I have discovered (on my slow reconnaissance zigzag tour of small town America) that every other yard appears to have one: an enormously large meteor proportioned rock positioned randomly in the front yard (giving the biggest possible inconvenience to the cutting of grass). It appears to be a miracle to me that not a single building or house seems to have been hit by one of these monoliths. They sit there without any aesthetic merit like a pimple of the unblemished skin of a prom queen - wondering existentially about their isolation and loneliness (nothing looks better on a perfectly manicured Pleasant Valley lawn than an asymmetrically placed two ton river-rock – right?)

 Are they just left behind from when the house was initially designed and built - when the land was first broken; perhaps too big to move so made into a garden feature? Or does a home owner, in a moment of unwarranted sobriety laden creative thinking, believe them to be more attractive and less work than a tree – with their constant high maintenance demands of leaf raking two weeks of the year. In actuality the whole yard could be turned over to the presentation of rocks and boulders. You don’t have to cut and feed rocks, they suppress weeds, they retain the heat, and you can’t be allergic to them (although Saint Stephen may argue with that statement).

The garage sales in the Midwest are advertised by using makeshift cardboard signs that normally have balloons attached to them. They are adorned with the words garage sale and convention dictates an address and an arrow. What I have discovered in my time here is that the words, our crap could be your crap, would perhaps be a better description (and would lead to less chance of litigation). When I look beyond the 1970s crock-pots, dirty aquariums and cornucopia of children’s clothing, I discover a collection of what people box up and discard the day after Christmas: unwanted sweaters, candles lacking in any useful merit, a Friends VHS box set, anything written, performed, or recorded by Brittney Spears, cheap colognes and dated unused exercise machinery that was at one time being employed as a clothes-horse in a spare bedroom. Ironically the day after Christmas is Saint Stephen’s Day – I am sure there must be a joke in their somewhere – if I think of one I shall write a postscript.

Ice, Ice, Baby

During the past week I have endured the delights of the winter Olympic Games in Sochi, Russia. These games appear to be made-up of random disciplines - that were probably devised to keep boredom at bay during cold lonely nights of inactivity; anywhere in the world where six months of darkness is followed by six months of daylight – where you can go to bed at night with your partner, only to wake up in the dawn’s early light to see her six months pregnant! These sporting events include the art of sliding rocks on ice, throwing yourself down a bobsleigh run on a tea-tray in skin-tight attire that could reveal your religion - if one choose to look close enough (or had high definition television), and messing around on skateboards without wheels.

Initially, having seen the American coverage of the games, I genuinely believed that only America was competing; it turns out that other countries had decided to join in as well. I am particularly proud to announce that Great Britain had started their medal haul by winning a bronze medal in the women’s half-pipe snowboarding event. This is the first medal Britain has ever won in an alpine Olympic event since the very beginning of time – and can be considered a monumental moment for two reasons. Firstly, we don’t get any snow, and secondly, we have no mountains – I would at this juncture like to take a moment to consider Canada, Finland, Sweden, Norway, Austria, France and Switzerland. All of whom have a mighty abundance of snow and mountains, yet failed to achieve in this sporting arena ahead of the mighty alpine sporting nation of Great Britain.

The United States continues to confound me with its use of Fahrenheit over Celsius, when describing temperatures at the games. America, Belize, the Cayman Islands and Palau are the only nations on the planet that still use the Fahrenheit system of temperature measurement. Why America, why! Is it just out of pure stubbornness or do you have some sort of pact or treaty with Palau and Belize? When American’s travel to any other country than the three mentioned above, they refuse to get of bed because the temperature given is 28 degrees. They are missing out on great opportunities to experience foreign travel and to broaden their minds because they are snuggled up under the hotel quilt – when the rest of the world (outside of Belize, the Cayman Islands and Palau) are stripping off and wearing shorts. Yeah, there's some complicated formula where you take the Celsius number and divide it by the square of the distance of Pluto from the sun, but who is expected to remember this (and it is often easily confused with the formula required for the process of making heavy water - which I believe to be ice).

"Mimi is not interested in the Winter Olympics"

Going in Circles 

 This week I experienced a bizarre moment of surrealism (these incidents are becoming more and more frequent in recent times) when I happened to be strolling around the mall in Mankato. I moved in a circular fashion along the thoroughfare and ambled passed the sunglasses stall, and the opportunity to win a Mini Cooper car; I was then suddenly presented with a vast display of diagrams and instructional videos that looked to inform the public (like a government information film) the correct way to negotiate a roundabout. Just to remind readers, this is a simple feature of the highway system, that places a circle in the middle of the road – the premise being that you arrive at it, give-way, then continue if nothing is coming (complicated right?). 

 This was a manned display with an educator that could interface with the Mankato public to inform them on such a transportation anomaly. All this because Mankato’s first roundabout now consolidates the two intersections at Stadium Road north with what used to be County Road 83 – and a program that has introduced five more in and around Mankato. For any Brits reading this editorial, it would be like receiving a public lesson in how to use a stop sign (a rarely seen road sign in Britain - with all its mysterious and complicated meta-narrative of meanings).

 I am not sure where this fear of the common roundabout comes from, but Americans seem to fear them, and then lose all logic and perception when placed in front of one. Americans and citizens of Mankato, you have nothing to fear! The only reason Britain does not come to a grinding gridlocked halt is down to these circular institutions; they were first introduced in 1768 at Bath Circus, and we have been going around in circles ever since. 

 So common are they, that the English town of Milton Keynes has over 300 alone; this leads to the strange phenomena of seeing the tires on the outside of your car wear out faster, because they travel further - it is a common practice in this town to have your tires rotated in the hope of encouraging even wear.

 In many ways you have a distinct advantage over me when tackling the humble roundabout, as I discovered on my way home. No amount of tuition prepared me for my interaction; this was the first time in the five years I have resided in this country, that I have arrived at the junction of a roundabout; so I drew on all my many years of experience and a lifetime of driving in Britain. I will now take this opportunity to apologize to all of the fellow users of the roundabout on Monday at 3.08pm for coming at them in a clockwise fashion, and for any distressed that was caused – it was a mistake that any Brit could have made.

The Mystery of the Nog

What on earth is a nog? I have seen vast quantities of eggnog for sale throughout the festive season in this country - but I have no idea of what a nog actually is. Could there ever be the possibility that one could run out of nogs - and how many nogs do you have to squeeze to make a pint? What if the nogs arrived fresh every Thursday, but on this occasion the delivery man could not get to the store in time - due to a mechanical failure. “Sorry sir, we have the eggs, but I am afraid to say that we are fresh out of nogs - perhaps you could come back tomorrow, we are expecting a delivery soon.” So does a nog substitute exist; can you get a fat-free nog - and can vegetarians have them?

Having now experienced several Minnesotan winters, I have come to realize that Minnesotans actually find 0 degrees a little chilly. Thus for my European brethren I have decided to formulate a five point plan to inform those on the other side of the Atlantic (from the comfort of my own ice-house) how cold Minnesotan snow actually is – solely by the divination of one’s fingers:

1. The snow feels tingly on my fingers. 
2. The snow is burning my fingers.
 3. I cannot feel my fingers.
 4. Where are my fingers? 
5. Why are my fingers see-through, and why are people ignoring me!

I have discovered many new and wondrous things about Minnesota (as the year has drawn to a close - bringing with it a time of reflection). I am now aware for example that a Minnesotan will install security lights on their house and garage - but then leave them both unlocked. I now know that a Minnesotan will design a kid’s Halloween costume to specifically fit over a snowsuit. I am now knowledgeable as to what ‘knee-high by the Fourth of July’ actually means, and I can now tell the difference between corn and soy beans at a single glance. I have also found that a Minnesotan’s idea of creative landscaping is to place a statue of a deer next to a blue spruce. I have also realized that at least twice a year their kitchen doubles as a meat processing plant, and that Minnesotans genuinely believe that Lutherans and Catholic are the only two major religions.

I think you will agree that 2013 has brought a profound and important cultural education; I will wait to see what awe and wonder shall be discovered in 2014.

Basting in Glory

I had the privilege of going to a feather party this week – I originally believed this to be some sort of depraved gathering involving random poultry (don’t judge me - I have a blog to write). I was then surprised as anyone when I found myself in a community hall surrounded by 30 octogenarians in the small town of Lewisville; where I discovered a feather party to be a fund raising bingo game for the local fire department - held annually every year before Christmas (which is ironic considering how many times the terms fire department and my mother’s Christmas turkey have overlapped in a Venn diagram over the years).

This experienced turned out to be the amateur playing of bingo though (not the professional kind of combat bingo that my grandmother would limber up for - involving bright lights, computer displays, contusions, hairline fractures, and the winning of electrical appliances). No blue dabbers were in site as I was handed a wooden board which looked like rows of sliding shutters on an advent calendar – allowing me to obscure the appropriate number if my balls should see fit to make their presence known.

 I felt lucky and bravado and posturing were in large supply - as I looked to disarm my opposition psychologically by staring each one down (but I suspected most could not see further than a couple of yards). In the past I may have said that I would rather rot on my own floor than be found with a bunch of bingo players in a nursing home, but the electricity of competition flowed through my veins and a hushed reverential silence descended as the balls ascended.

 My gut instincts were proved right though as I joyously shouted out ‘bingo’ just several games into the proceedings; a large frozen turkey was now in my possession! Balls came and went with alacrity and my winning streak gathered pace in a fevered blur of concentration and shutter moving. ‘Bingo’ once more I yelled, in apoplectic glee (eat my turkey feathers and dust old people) as I called another ‘bingo’ just moments later - when would the hedonistic winning pleasure end.

 Dazed and confused with the high of success I stumbled out of the hall - like a newly crowned drunken prom queen with a large box of five frozen turkeys (but without the stuffing). I had nowhere to store them and no-one to eat them with – I may as well have walked out into the chilly night air with five artificial limbs or a collection of Adam Sandler films on VHS cassette.

 Is it not always the convention that when the opportunity arises to win a brand new Mini Cooper, a widescreen plasma television, or a fortnight in Gran Canaria, that one’s ticket is suddenly absent without leave? Yet when Monopoly money is at stake during a family Christmas game, or at the festive office raffle for a boxed set of shower gel and deodorant, I am suddenly rolling in good fortune, great smells, and toy money.

 My sense of humor is like a turkey, and I often pull it out of the oven and baste it in reality.

The Turkey and the Rock

 The cult British television show Doctor Who had its 50th anniversary this week; it is amazing to think that it debuted on the very day President Kennedy was assassinated - I would not say that I am an obsessive Doctor Who fan though; I have the same number of fridge magnets as everyone else!

This week also saw Thanksgiving, a time when Americans all over the country gave thanks and praise for all the things they have in life (and then left Wal-Mart looking like the opening 30 minutes of Saving Private Ryan the following day - in the violent quest to gain more things to be thankful for). I participated in the festivities fully by eating the customary plate of brown and beige food and by answering questions about how we celebrate Thanksgiving in Britain (we are a bit thin on Native Americans so we pass on this).

This year brought a new and more intriguing statement though: "Isn’t it an amazing coincidence that the Mayflower left Britain and then landed at Plymouth Rock (Plymouth being the name of a harbor they left behind on the south coast of England) – what are the chances of that happening!" I had to inform the orator of this statement that it was just a rock they landed on and they called it Plymouth Rock retrospectively - in remembrance of the harbor and city they had left behind (a bit like the chicken and egg scenario I guess).

You know you are bad at gardening when you manage to kill the stones in your rock garden!

Bucking Good Fun

 This week I found myself visiting a rodeo event - I have never seen so many poops in one place - a recipe of cow and horse defecation melded together in copious amounts; I walked around the arena like a man standing in a minefield - I lost my shoe twice! Perhaps in retrospect a suit and tie were not the best attire for such an event, but I had never been to a rodeo before and thought it to be a night out.

Patriotism was in abundance as the rhetoric of American fervor (being the greatest and the best) was shoveled on in thick amounts, as the Stars and Stripes were paraded before all; then a small teenage girl tried to do justice to the national anthem (unaccompanied) and fell flat in several places (to give her full credit the song has a range of one and a half octaves and must be the most difficult of any national anthem to sing). The charged-up host then stirred the atmosphere further by asking for any veterans of the Second World War to stand up – to receive a round of appreciative applause. An elderly looking Japanese guy behind me looked unsure whether to rise or not, but remained embarrassingly seated.

The first event of the night, once we had got past the racist jokes of the in-house clown (that made me think the 1980s had never happened) was the children’s bull ride. A gate flew open and an arthritic one-eyed bull with a pronounced limp stood there bored and chewing cud (is there a bovine equivalent for Alzheimer’s disease?) The smallest children sat on its back motionless with one hand in the air, frozen in motion for ten seconds – then a buzzer sounded and everybody clapped. I wonder if one volunteers for a rodeo or whether you just get roped-in?

What I took away from the evening’s proceedings was the notion that if you have not fallen off a horse, then you have not been riding long enough.