It is April, if not the cruellest month then certainly the rainiest.
I have already written about the lush landscape, well watered from the celestial watering can. Today is yet another watering can day, sprinkling but not drenching.
This is a good thing, I know. It will give a good start to the veggies. Later this year there will probably come a time when we will wish for rain, and the hose, lying coiled since last year like a sleeping snake, will emerge from its winter lair to spit water at the tomatoes and the zucchini.
But these rainy spring days are a bit on the raw side (currently it is 42 bone-chilling degrees F.) I am not inclined to be outside more than I need to. I scuttle from car to house and house to car.
Inside, the darkness and the rain seems to dampen enthusiasm for lots of important activities that require actual movement, like cleaning, or laundry, or cooking. And, thanks to a family member who shall remain nameless (she knows who she is), I have re-discovered a really good time-waster.
Mahjongg.
Computerized mahjongg, to be precise. Perhaps the most insanely addictive game ever created.
Regular Mahjongg is an ancient Chinese pastime that can be traced back about a thousand years, although its introduction to the West came in the late 1800s; by 1920 it was all the rage in the U.S., where it is frequently played in Jewish circles. Outside of the U.S. it is sometimes a gambling pursuit, and is still widely played in Asia.
The game as it is played now involves four players; 12 or 16 tiles are dealt to the players, depending on the variation played. It is somewhat like pinochle, or gin, in that it involves collecting "melds" or sets of tiles, and requires skill and some strategy as well as luck.
Computerized Mahjongg, on the other hand, is diabolically simple. There are 144 tiles with various interesting and exotic Chinese symbols on them, arranged so that some of the tiles are stacked on each other, some just layed out in rows. Kind of like a pyramid with legs going out from it.
Your job is to click on two matching tiles that are "free" (meaning, at the edge of a row). Match all of the tiles, and you win. It is actually a form of Solitaire (in fact, the online game I play is called "Mahjongg Solitaire".
The Chinese symbols on the tiles can be grouped into categories such as "stones", "honor" or "flowers"; honor tiles have names like zhōngbǎng or báibǎn, meaning things like passing the test or getting rich; flowers would be plum, orchid, Chrysanthemum or bamboo.
I, however, have made up my own names for them, based on what they look like. So, for me the tiles are called things like "strips of bacon", "party hat", or "lobster".
Crackjongg, as I now think of it, involves no more complicated mental process from me than thoughts like "darn, that lobster I need is stuck behind two strips of bacon" or "what do I have to do to free that party hat so that I can match the hamburger and fries?" Each time I match two tiles ("columns"? "buttons"?
"torpedos"?) I get two points. I rarely get a game to come out perfectly, which means 144 points; frequently my score is more like 72.
Every now and then, however, I do actually win, which allows me exactly one second of satisfaction. Unfortunately, this averages out to about one time in 10. So, the principle of intermittent reinforcement is definitely at play here.
I have already written about the lush landscape, well watered from the celestial watering can. Today is yet another watering can day, sprinkling but not drenching.
This is a good thing, I know. It will give a good start to the veggies. Later this year there will probably come a time when we will wish for rain, and the hose, lying coiled since last year like a sleeping snake, will emerge from its winter lair to spit water at the tomatoes and the zucchini.
But these rainy spring days are a bit on the raw side (currently it is 42 bone-chilling degrees F.) I am not inclined to be outside more than I need to. I scuttle from car to house and house to car.
Inside, the darkness and the rain seems to dampen enthusiasm for lots of important activities that require actual movement, like cleaning, or laundry, or cooking. And, thanks to a family member who shall remain nameless (she knows who she is), I have re-discovered a really good time-waster.
Mahjongg.
Computerized mahjongg, to be precise. Perhaps the most insanely addictive game ever created.
Regular Mahjongg is an ancient Chinese pastime that can be traced back about a thousand years, although its introduction to the West came in the late 1800s; by 1920 it was all the rage in the U.S., where it is frequently played in Jewish circles. Outside of the U.S. it is sometimes a gambling pursuit, and is still widely played in Asia.
The game as it is played now involves four players; 12 or 16 tiles are dealt to the players, depending on the variation played. It is somewhat like pinochle, or gin, in that it involves collecting "melds" or sets of tiles, and requires skill and some strategy as well as luck.
Computerized Mahjongg, on the other hand, is diabolically simple. There are 144 tiles with various interesting and exotic Chinese symbols on them, arranged so that some of the tiles are stacked on each other, some just layed out in rows. Kind of like a pyramid with legs going out from it.
Your job is to click on two matching tiles that are "free" (meaning, at the edge of a row). Match all of the tiles, and you win. It is actually a form of Solitaire (in fact, the online game I play is called "Mahjongg Solitaire".
The Chinese symbols on the tiles can be grouped into categories such as "stones", "honor" or "flowers"; honor tiles have names like zhōngbǎng or báibǎn, meaning things like passing the test or getting rich; flowers would be plum, orchid, Chrysanthemum or bamboo.
I, however, have made up my own names for them, based on what they look like. So, for me the tiles are called things like "strips of bacon", "party hat", or "lobster".
Crackjongg, as I now think of it, involves no more complicated mental process from me than thoughts like "darn, that lobster I need is stuck behind two strips of bacon" or "what do I have to do to free that party hat so that I can match the hamburger and fries?" Each time I match two tiles ("columns"? "buttons"?
"torpedos"?) I get two points. I rarely get a game to come out perfectly, which means 144 points; frequently my score is more like 72.
Every now and then, however, I do actually win, which allows me exactly one second of satisfaction. Unfortunately, this averages out to about one time in 10. So, the principle of intermittent reinforcement is definitely at play here.
There is a little button at the bottom of the game that is the most troublesome thing of all about playing Crackjongg. When you press it, you instantly get another game. I just know that the next time I play, the game will come out perfectly. Or, the game after that.
This is how I became a Mahjunky. Somewhere, B. F. Skinner is chuckling.
I have one piece of advice for you. Do not play this game. If you do, the next thing you know, it will be dark outside, your loved ones will be hungry, and you will have no clean underwear.
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