Kharma Offsets

Yesterday Tammy and I met many of our new neighbors at a social event organized by the president of the community association. There is an old rail line that is now only used as a scenic train ride for tourists. Our neighborhood association rented it for the evening. So in essence it was a rolling block party.

As is customary at such events, I got to talking to my new neighbor about my various outdoorsy interests. Of course seeing as we all live in Phoenicia, having "outdoorsy" on one's resume is not such an unusual trait. Nor is having unusual traits such an unusual trait in Phoenicia. I am quickly discovering it is ground zero for the artsy and intellectual set from New York City. The Sedona of the East coast. There is more Zen per square mile than any locale I have visited in the fifty United States. So when I say I don't like to mess with my Kharma, my fellow indwellers know of what I speak.

So my new friend suggested that I head over to one of the local ski slopes for a little down hill mountain bike adventure. For the price of a summer lift ticket you take your bike up the hill on the chair lift and then you only have to ride it downhill. A free ride sweatwise if you think like me. You do have to work somewhat, my new chum asserted. Not nearly enough to offset the bad kharma that would most assuredly come my way if I biked downhill without first biking uphill I thought.
"There are no free rides." I averred.
"Oh, but it isn't free. You have to pay for the lift ticket!" was the reply.
And that's when it hit me; Kharma offsets. Not at all unlike carbon offsets. It's Nirvana for the capitalists. Bourgeois Buddhism. If I can barter my way out of bad kismet with paper money then I have found my creed.

Al dente or mushy, you decide.

Now that my blog has gone viral, well not so much viral as low grade febrile, I would like to conduct a reader preference survey. This readers' choice opinion poll will be about style not substance.
I will present two posts about the same affront. One will be in the author's usual pejorative voice and the other will be written in a more gracious tone. You, the reader, shall decide which is the more enlightening (we need no survey to understand which is the more entertaining) point of view. During the voting phase, try to pretend you don't actually know me........

A} Why do men who fancy themselves good cooks have to tell the entire world what great cooks they are? Their wives are equally complicit in this game of self-aggrandizement. "Oh, Jim is such a great cook. His truffle and black japonica stuffed wild goose with mango chutney is to die for". Granted, men brag about their wives being great in the kitchen, but in a utilitarian sort of way. Men talk about their exploits in the kitchen like they brag about their golf game (an equally annoying habit). Like golf, their cooking is just a past time. A hobby. A stress reliever. Like stamp collecting. But for some reason philatelists don't somehow manage to mention the great stamp they just scored on e-bay into their conversation upon first meeting you. Nor can I recall any male gardeners who tell me how big their zucchinis are within two minutes of meeting me. I have, though, met plenty of amateur chefs who, during our initial handshake, invite me over to their house to try their raspberry coulis basted beef loin with sweet potato bouchees. And their usual oenopihlic enthusiasm only adds to the annoyance. I should also mention that there is also some improbable story about how the ingredients were obtained. It invariably involves a trip to a sketchy secretive basement butcher shop, in the worst section of town, where our intrepid chef scored the last piece of Argentinian grass fed beef available on the entire east coast.

Do they think it is so unusual for a man to cook? The world's greatest chefs have traditionally been men. It is indeed a very technically demanding discipline. It appeals to the left brained nature of men, not unlike rebuilding car engines. But I guess that is a de rigueur hobby so who cares. I will concede that men, in general, do always seem to have this need to share their vital experiences with the world. Men are raised in a culture of one upmanship. It is the physiology of testosterone. Maybe that is why bragging about being a good cook is so annoying. I think it is intended to show what an enlightened, modern man one is. "See, I am as at home in the kitchen as I am out in the garage. Now pass me the motor oil, I mean olive oil"........



B} I recently had the opportunity to meet some new friends at a dinner party for one of my wife's co-workers. All the women knew each other but none of the husbands had met. The hostess's husband was a very charming fellow and interestingly enough he prepared the entire meal! Upon first entering their lovely home I commented on the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. "That's Jim!", my delighted hostess proclaimed. "He loves to cook and has not left the kitchen since he arrived home from work today. After a long day of doing brain surgery in the OR, he loves nothing more than to share his cooking and knowledge of wine with our friends".
Just then, as if the entire event had been choreographed by George Balanchine, our host came out to greet us and said "I can't wait till you see the wine I have chosen to accompany my duck a l'orange!" My mouth was already watering.

Our host did not disappoint. The evening was a cornucopia of epicurean pleasures. Rapturing conversation about Jim's culinary escapades and more essentially, a palette of comestible pleasures was laid out before us. To make the meal even more appealing, our host informed us that all the food including the duck, was purchased from the local CSA. "Isn't it just so much more satisfying to know you are supporting the local artisanal food purveyors?" "Yes!" we all chimed in at once.

Our bellies full, and outlook bright, we said our goodbyes. "He really inspired me", I confided to Tammy that night as we lay in bed. "First thing tomorrow morning I am going to wake up and cook you a huge breakfast of poached eggs, wild boysenberry whole wheat pancakes, and fresh squeezed Valencia orange juice, and I can't wait for you to tell the whole world about it!".....

Remember, vote early and vote anonymously.

I can't seem to get over high school.

The following is strictly a rant. Stream of conscious writing only.

I think the smart kids need to take America back from the clueless kids. Why are we so afraid of offending them when they say and believe in ideas based on emotions rather than facts? The under achievers in high school never wasted an opportunity to belittle the smart kids. If you volunteered and answered questions in class you were called the teacher's pet. Now the term "intellectual elite" has become a pejorative used by the likes of Glen Beck and Rush Limbaugh. They are basically the loud mouth preternaturally pubescent bullies from high school. If you don't agree with them they call you an elitist snob. I for one am tired of worrying about offending the unenlightened masses. The perfect example of this is President Obama's "They cling to their guns and religion "comment. I guarantee you, the same people who were offended by that are the same ones who made fun of me in gym class for not being able to do a layup. The Tea Party is most likely made up of the kids who shot spit balls at the back of my head for volunteering to answer the questions posed by my eleventh grade chemistry teacher. You know I am right. Why have we let them hijack America? Honestly, Sarah Palin.....really?????
And George Bush? Sure he believed in bipartisanship. His idea of being bipartisan was if everyone, on both sides of the isle, did what he wanted.....Just like the "cool kids" from high school.

It is like I always say, "life is just a pale extension of high school". If you didn't have the same values as the jocks, you were made to feel like a bonehead. We need to lift America up to the standards of the Honor Society, not be held hostage to the whims of the cheerleading squad (no offense to cheerleaders, but you get my drift). That is what one of the most popular television shows in America, Glee, is about. Most Americans obviously get this but we still exalt the "cool kids" like Glen Beck, Bill O'Reilly and George Bush hoping we will be accepted if we agree with them. Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld and the like, are bullies, plain and simple. Chris Christie, the governor of New Jersey is also a bully (though in order to fix NJ, the Governor has to be a bully).

Here is a perfect example of how we allow uninformed language to affect us: Why does the Tea Party confuse socialism and fascism? By becoming increasingly involved in our personal lives the government is becoming more and more fascist, not socialist. The Religious Right is a fascist movement. They want to dictate how we control our own bodies. I would like to administer an essay test to everyone who openly states an opinion about the direction the US is heading in: Compare and contrast socialism, fascism, capitalism, democratic republicanism, direct democracy, communism, and monarchism. Also to be discussed is which ones are forms of government and which are economic systems. What is the United States, economically and politically?

Oh, I am having a very relaxing weekend up at the cabin. It's just that I saw a youtube clip of Sarah Palin going on about grizzlies and pit bulls or something and it sent me over the edge.

The Food Fascist

Hanging about with people who are obsessed with healthful eating may be bad for your health. I have noticed that whenever they interview centenarians about the secret to their long life they never seem to mention reducing trans fats in their diets nor eating more omega 3 fatty acids. Some have smoked at one point in their life, most drink daily or on occasion, and none talk about hitting the gym daily. But there is one thing they all have in common; a stress free happy outlook on life. It occurs to me that I am happiest when eating a vanilla/chocolate twist soft serve cone.

I believe it is time for a new study in the diet and longevity category. I would like to assign a lieutenant in the fascist food army (Michael Pollan being the self elected dictator for life) to follow around a hapless nutriphobe (I submit this new word into the American lexicon, although it did get a few hits in Google) as he proceeds to make all the wrong food choices at the ShopRite.

It shall be my hypothesis that the amount of cortisol that is released into the blood stream every time one obsesses over whether or not the chicken they are eating was allowed to run wild around the barnyard is far more detrimental to their vascular health than any perceived benefit derived from eating a well adjusted chicken. Every time the subject is about to buy some processed food item the organophilic foot soldier will poke him in the ribs and deliver a shrill lecture about antibiotics, nitrosamines, and the petroleum basis of our food chain. Our piteous lab rat will either be dead or chain smoking within 6 months.

In the interest of full disclosure I must admit I myself have engaged in such imperious behavior toward my fellow dinnermates. It's just that my branch of nutrient nazism has fallen into disfavor. Apparently it is okay to eat fat as long as it is not trans and as long as the steer ate grass, not corn and he never met the business end of a penicillin filled hypodermic needle. It is also permissible to eat Miracle Whip based salads as long as the ingredients are organic, though you may find yourself believing that Sarah Palin has some valid points.

Karma Chameleon

Well I am not one to believe in Karma or fate (I totally disagree when people say it was meant to be), but after my coincidence today I may become a convert. Two weeks ago Tammy and I met a couple, Troy and Anya, while hiking to Peekamoose Mountain. We had decided to summit the Catskill peaks over 3500 feet and as it turns out so did this couple. We got to talking to them in the trail head parking lot and we exchanged e-mails and promised to stay in touch. Of course we exchanged the obligatory notes vowing to hike together and then I proceeded to forget about the whole affair.

Two weeks later Jeremy (my nephew) and his girlfriend, Cindy, came up for a visit. We took a hike to Giant Ledge (which is quickly becoming my go to hike). There we are enjoying the view while eating our PB and J sandwiches and who should come around the bend but Troy and Anya! "I thought I recognized your hat" he says. What are the odds of meeting the same hikers twice, two weeks apart, in the 700,000 square acre Catskill Park? Way less than meeting up on the linear Appalachian Trail I am sure. Well if this is not a sign from some cosmic force that we were meant to hike with these people then I don't know what would be.

The universe only has to slap me in the face once and I will pay attention. In reality, all seemingly "too unbelievable to be a coincidence" events are indeed just coincidences. You know the saying, if you stick a monkey in front of a keyboard, he will eventually type out all of Shakespeare's works due to random chance and given, say, two billion years. So it is with fate. Given the 6 billion people on Earth and the 10,000 year history of modern society, something, somewhere, is bound to happen to someone, that seems too astonishing to be mere chance. Today it happened to me.

Uh oh, it might suck living in a tourist town!!!

The sound starts faintly. Your subconscious mind registers it as a possible approaching thunder storm. Was that thunder? Did you hear it? But the rumble is continuous. It soon percolates up from your incognizant mind into a fight or flight temper. The roar has become so deafeningly loud that you assume a crouched, hyper aware stance ready to flee the approaching intruder. And there, at the other end of the street, you see it; a parade of over the hill baby boomers high astride their Harley Electra Strides. Not two, not four, not even ten. But at least forty bikers, with their gray beards flapping, pot bellies jiggling , and their buxomous, bodacious brides clinging on for dear life. Blue jeans and leather were definitely meant for a svelter somatotype.

Now I am not a pack animal. I am more leopard than hyena. I prefer to hang out high up in a tree looking down at the rest of the forest animals with great disdain. I have never felt the need to surround myself with more than one or two of my species at any given moment. Besides, when a herd of elephants comes charging through the forest doesn't everything in their path get destroyed? One or two elephants peacefully grazing on the tree canopy is a pastoral sight to behold. A herd of fifty, on the other hand, is a cause for serious alarm among the village folk.

It's funny; when I park my Subaru in front of the bar I don't sit in it revving the engine for ten minutes. Maybe the vibration feels good on their chaps clad crotch or something. Nor do I spend 85% of my down time discussing the merits of a fuel injected six cylinder Subaru versus the more green four cylinder model with my fellow Subaru owner parked next to me. And believe me, there are way more Subaru owners in the Catskill Park than Harley owners, yet we somehow manage to blend in with the forest.

Some of my friends, coworkers, and patients are bikers. Taken one or two at a time, they are all lovely and warm people. And charitable to boot, as evidenced by the many group rides organized as fund raising events. And I know why they like their pipes loud and why they ride in groups; for safety reasons. Fine. But I have needs too. Like enjoying my beer at a sidewalk table surrounded by the peace and quiet of the mountains and the soothing purr of the Esopus Creek. Let's hope Sturgis never comes to the Catskills.

If Only I was 5" 11" instead of 5" 7"

I was recently accused of living in "what if" world. This is much different than "only if" world. In "only if" world I went out for varsity track. I was nice instead of sarcastic to girls in high school and I dated a lot. I invested in Microsoft instead of Betamax. "If only" is a thought of regret.
The person who lives in "only if" world is a positive negative thinker. If only I would have done this instead of that, things would be great.

I, on the other hand, am a negative negative thinker, as in "oh my god, what if the fire had spread to the entire house instead of being confined to the microwave?" In my thought process, no disaster is so small that it does not have the potential to become a cataclysmic event. The "what if" syndrome. No matter that disaster was averted. It is the potential event that infects my brain. In fact, the Butterfly Effect informs all my decision making algorithms. I am painfully aware that the choices we made as young adults haunt us throughout our entire lives. Even as a young person I was conscious that my decisions would affect the rest of my life. Some people seem to bounce from crisis to crisis and it is most definitely due to some previous decision. What if is not a thought of regret it is a thought of "I had better plan some more".

That is why I am a what iffer, not an only iffer. All we have control over is our own decisions. "Only if" is the thought of a dreamer. "What if" is the thought of a planner. The problem is when these thoughts become pathologic and they begin to paralyze you. I have come perilously close to this edge. Luckily the person standing next to me slapped my face. If only I had slapped them back..... Oh my god, what if I had slapped them back?