Zen Master Snoogles

I’m told that nothing takes place in a vacuum; everything exists in the context of personal experience and in a matrix of socio-historical lighting. Even the smallest interaction between two human beings requires the confluence and mutual acceptance of thousands of identity claims, shared meanings, and linguistic forces that, if one stops to think about, are tapestries meticulously woven with the tiniest threads and pins of that rather abstract concept known as “culture.” To try and ignore all of these ingredients is to deny the beauty of basic societal interactions, and therefore denies the importance of the individual in his or her environment. I’ve only met one person who has been able to transcend the necessity of context in personal interactions, and he is one of my co-workers: let us call him Mr. Snoogles.

Mr. Snoogles is an absolute anomaly to me. I have never met someone who effectively imposes his esoteric world onto others as much as him. For Mr. Snoogles, context is a foreign concept and randomness is a ritual. Every time he looks at me with his petrified grin and glazy eyes, I have absolutely no idea what will happen or what will come out of his mouth. Even if we’ve been discussing a work-related topic, or making small talk, the interaction can easily pull an absolute 180 at the drop of a hat when it is in the hands of Mr. Snoogles.

Just the other day, without any warning, Mr. Snoogles approached me and asked: “ Do you have experience?” I searched my memory for a conversation we might have had in the past that would justify him asking me this question, but I came up with nothing.

“Uh. Well, what kin…I mean, what?”
“Do you have experience?”
“With what?”
“Experience.”
“Right, but with what are you wondering if I have experience?”
“Women.”
“Oh, well I ha—…”
“Do you say in English, ‘Do you have experience?’”
“Yeah, I guess, but it really depe—…”

And I’m cut off because Mr. Snoogles abruptly turns and walks away.

After our so-called interactions, I often feel as though I have been hit on the head with a frying pan, or perhaps smacked in the face with a sock full of coins. It’s typically a what-the-hell-just-happened kind of sensation. If I were a cartoon, there would be stars circling above my head. But, as far as I can tell, Mr. Snoogles has no idea that what he has just done is anything out of the ordinary. He’s an intelligent man, that’s for sure, but he is impervious to—or simply does not care about—the importance of context in his interactions with people, especially me.

Mr. Snoogles is under the impression that I am (among other things which I am not) a karate master. At least once a day, I can count on Mr. Snoogles calling my name, at which point he will begin with his favorite English slogan:

“Do you know?”

He then will either demonstrate a kick-punch combo or launch into a diatribe in Japanese which as far as I can tell is about the history of karate or how to really mess someone up by hitting him or her in the eye.

One day I walked into the men’s bathroom to find him practicing his kata in front of the mirror. He was not the least bit embarrassed at being caught, and after asking “do you know?” he immediately demanded that I not only try the moves with him, but also contribute to his verbal dissertation on the beauty of his technique. I tried the moves. I nodded politely, and offered the few Japanese conversation-fillers I know in the hopes that he would take the hint that I was just being courteous. Maybe then he would realize that I have nothing to add to the conversation because I know approximately jack shit about karate. But, he didn’t take the hint, and we spent about 15 minutes in the bathroom, him showing me the moves in the mirror, and me damn near peeing my pants.

Mr. Snoogles will not be undone, he preservers even when it’s apparent that I lack the intellectual equipment to follow him into his own little world. Day after day, he does his best to squeeze some kind of knowledge out of me: whether about karate, women, computers, the Dutch language…it usually catches me completely off guard and I am unable to deliver. Sometimes I wish that I did have some secret mastery of it all, and that maybe Mr. Snoogles’ enigmatic way of interacting with me is similar to a Zen Koan. I'm sure everyone is familiar with the old tale of the Yogi who approaches the Buddha with some form of existential apprehension and receives an answer that is of absoltutely NO help to anyone :

Yogi: "Oh venerable one, what is the true Nature of Reality?"

Buddha: "Defecation!"

At this point the Buddha would crap his own pants, grab a handful of his feces and chuck them at the Yogi, hitting him right in the forehead. And because of this the lucky bastard becomes enlightened.

So, in this light, maybe after Mr. Snoogles drops a weird non-sequitur on me or shows me how to block a punch, I can attain a deep understanding of the contingency of our fixed opinions about human interactions as well as our own self-imposed limits, and reach enlightenment on the spot (as well as receive the ability to become a bad-ass karate master, a ladies’ man, a computer wiz, not to mention fluent in Dutch). I can make it to Nirvana by gaining a sage-like insight into the bizarre antics of Mr. Snoogles and unlock the door to The Unknown...

Nothing has happened yet, though.