Instruments of the Apocalypse: Culture-Killers

There is a zen saying that goes something like this: "Wherever you go, there you are."

It's one of those things that has always intoned for me the importance of being good and true to oneself. It doesn't matter where you end up, because it will always be YOU there. Essentially, the world is what you make it.

I like thinking that. I take comfort in my internal locus of control, and I am a firm believer in the concept of reciprocal determinism (thank you Albert Bandura).

There just comes a time, however, when the life we bring to the party just isn't enough, where we find ourselves trapped in a place so lifeless, so insipid, so completely drained of color and originality that we begin to assimilate with the dreary landscape, becoming Bland Borgs of Boredom.

You wonder where this is?

Sadly, in my opinion, all you really have to do is take pretty much any random exit ramp from any U.S. freeway, and you've found it. The standard features are typically as follows:

McDonald's/Burger King
Denny's/Applebee's/Red Lobster/Olive Garden
Chevron/Shell/Texaco/Exxon/7-11
And of course the overly ubiquitous Wal-Mart and/or Target.

These are fixtures on the American landscape that we not only come to expect wherever we go, but we feel deprived when they are not there. How many times have I caught myself saying in the course of travelling: "Let's keep going until we find a McDonald's [or other familiar restaurant]." or "Oh there's [insert massive chain name here] at the next exit. We'll go there."

How common and trite we've shaped our world. How dependent we've all become on the mass-produced, stamped out of the assembly line predictability of these places. We've become saturated with the sense of security provided to us by nameless faces and faceless names who could care less who we are, so long as we're willing to keep filling their pockets with money if they offer us the right prices and the right names.

Of course many will say that American culture has always made itself a sort of walking advertisement for its own ingenuity; it should be considered a beacon and a blessing that we have been able, as a people, to create such monolithic symbols as Ronald McDonald and Sam Walton's great blue hope, because certainly- at least up until recently- you couldn't ever get Nachos Belgrande in Iraq! It just stops being a positive force for me whenever I feel like wherever I go, the only things that make those places worth being at are the same "comforts" I've left behind.

It's all starting to feel so homogenized and generic. Everything is sponsored by a massive company. There is no such thing as just an ordinary sports stadium named after its own team. It's just a building carrying the bannerhead of the biggest financial contributer on the outside, and when we hear the name Qwest Field (that's the Seattle Seahawks stadium for those not sure), instead of invoking the spirit of the team playing inside, we think of a fucking phone company. Yay!

So yes, wherever we go, there we are. Only I feel like I'm becoming more like the lifeless things that are there, and pretty soon it'll feel like there is no determinism to reciprocate, because both sides will eventually be the same.

And that, Congenial Readers, will really really suck.

Instruments of the Apocalypse: Sudoku

"Oh great", you say, "Here comes that cheese girl again to totally beat up on something that I totally love!" In the words of Jud Crandall from Pet Sematary, I say this unto thee:

"Ayuh."

But don't worry, Congenial Readers, I plan on keeping the fare rather light for 2 reasons:

-I'm getting sicker by the minute today. Fragging sinuses.

-I have experienced a level of frustration this morning that can only warrant me ranting about it on my blog for a few minutes. It's only helpful that it happens to be Tuesday, the designated slot for my more passionate diatribes.

Sudoku: How When paired with Pokemon and Delicious Teriyaki Food, the Trifecta of Japanese World Domination is Complete

Oh sure, these little number puzzles look innocuous enough. And perhaps you're even feeling drawn to copying and pasting this little diddy onto your own computer so you can print it out and enjoy.

"It's only one," you reason with yourself. Then suddenly you are wandering the aisles of your local Barnes & Noble, Target, or Walgreen's looking for an entire book of them. And then you realize that your house isn't clean, there is moss growing on your teeth, a family of racoons is living in your hair, and that you haven't paid your bills in two months as evidenced by your grimy hands clutching the Sudoku book as you fill in yet another puzzle- in complete DARKNESS.

I was introduced to this game by my lovely father-in-law who was at the time recovering from heart surgery. As he tells it, by the time he left the hospital, pretty much all of the doctors and nurses in his unit were hooked. When I first attempted one of these puzzles, I was completely lost. I've never been much good at brain teasers or things requiring a whole lot of strategy. I enjoy strategy, but that part of my brain remains flabby. Involve numbers in these endeavors, and my IQ drops from a respectable 136 to uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... nummmbers....

So imagine my surprise when I actually found that I was sorta kinda enjoying these mini-apocalyptic-brain-traps! I left my in-law's house that day, however, satisfied that I'd had my fill of the latest Japanese sensation. It was only a few weeks later when I discovered that this "harmless little game" had become a massively popular phenomenon. Entire sections of the bookstore were devoted to it. There were boardgames, online tutorials, messageboards. It was basically EVERYWHERE, and because I am the kind of person who at least attempts to avoid following the herd in the beginning (the iPod didn't suck me in until about three or four years after its initial release), I was successful in avoiding it.

Then I took a harmless little trip to Target to buy a muffin tin and a makeup mirror, and what do I see in the checkout lane but a row of Martial Arts Sudoku books, each difficulty level represented by a colored belt. Before I could even begin to talk myself out of it, I grabbed White Belt Sudoku and tossed it on top of my other purchases. I rationalized I would keep it in my book bag and only pull it out when there was a lull in activity.

Then I woke up sick and needed something to pass the time laying pathetically here on my couch other than my equally soul-sucking laptop. Suffice to say that the horrendous White Belt Sudoku book is now lying on the other side of the living room. Where I threw it. It reminds me of a deadly, hypnotic Cobra that bites me every time I try to touch it, and I feel compelled to go back for more, because I'm either stupid or I'm a masochist.

Or both.