Forever the ball rolls

The machine in the San Jose airport will forever spark rich feelings of joy.

When I was a child, I watched for hours as the balls rolled, spun, twisted, and jumped, pinging the bells and conking on the wooden blocks. Seven balls – nine in the box, but always with two of them fallen to the bottom, having missed the jump or, more likely, the bounce-pass. For hours and hours, I would watch these balls. And never would I see a ball miss.

I remember the rhythm; the conk-CAH-cohnk of the green one that spins.

A while ago I considered the idea of buying up old dormant brands, then relaunching them for a new generation. But here’s the kicker: focus on the same people, not the same product. Instead of Hush Puppies shoes for a new generation of young folk, it’s Hush Puppies slippers for older people. The name was always the pitch: barking dogs meant aching feet, and the 1958 shoes promised to hush them. The slippers keep that promise at 75. It’s not Lunchables for a new generation of school kids; it’s Lunchables for yuppies.

We’re wrong when we say that old habits die hard. In reality, they don’t die. They simply go dormant, waiting for the trigger to reignite those same neurons.

But the same sound, the same rhythm, the same habits of mind: the same rolling ball machine still scratches that same itch.

The airport has moved the machine to a new location. They’ve rotated it so I now watch from the other side. Still, the sounds and the rhythm are the same. It’s nice, it’s comfortable, like an old warm coat passed down from a parent that still smells like them even after it’s washed. I found it in an old box in the back of a closet. How nice it is to feel the spark return to my eyes.

An Art (Apr 4 2026) 

An off-off-off-off Broadway day. 

I attended an art today. A very Burning Man-ish art. Listen: 

You knock on a door in Brooklyn. A clown-not-yet-in-costume opens the door. She tells you the show starts when she dons her hat. But now, she is hatless, so the show must not have started. 

You introduce yourself to the other attendees. There are five of you: you, your partner, a couple (she’s from Bulgaria; he’s a stand up comedian), and a woman of about 80 who formerly performed voiceover work for the Muppets. 

The host dons her hat. She provides you a passport and divides you into groups: you’re with the Bulgarian and Muppet; your partner is with the Standup. The host introduces you to the town: five stations, each themed around a custom topic for you. (Mine was Consistency & Stability.) 

You visit the five stations in sequence. At one, you marry your theme. At another, your theme writes you a letter.
At the beginning of the experience, you ask yourself, “Why am I here?” You imagine yourself leaving to go to a park. Getting some much-needed rest away from the world. 

At one station, the Muppet tells you of how she was engaged to a man in L.A. A beautiful man, an incredible musician. But he had a nervous breakdown and moved back to Las Vegas. And she moved back home to New York City. And had she not done that, she would never have been the in-demand voice over artist she ended up being. 

By the end, you have found in this activity a bit of solace, peace, and comfort.
You met some people who enjoyed the time they passed with you.
You learned a small bit experientially.
If you generally had positive memories, you would have positive ones here too.

After the experience, the clown host mentions she previously studied in France, under the same teacher who founded the clown school you attended.
She says she left his instruction back in the early 2000s, thinking he had failed her. Only after he died did she recognize he had been right all along.
You wonder how much that’s true for you too.
You wonder where you have to go. 

An hour later, you see a dear friend for a bite of dim sum.
It’s his birthday. It’s nice to laugh.
You wander toward home, a bit colder than expected.
You check your texts, and find a thank you from the clown host. She says that your conversation helped her. She may return to that school. 

You arrive home. 

And all this time,
still,
throughout the entire day,
you wonder
why you feel
so utterly
alone.