There's Nothing Buddhist About Bingo

The cream of the crop, the highlight, the crown jewel of the Oakland Buddhist Church Bazaar: 3 cards for $1 Bingo. That's right folks—Bingo. Every year, my brother and I suffer for the unfiltered and raw energy of the gritty Bingo experience.

I'm serious about Bingo; today I found myself muttering (probably audible to strangers) how the old woman behind me was "pissing me off" for having a stack of 4 prize tickets.

When a voice across the room calls "Bingo" when you have 4 in a row, the emotion is a mix of violent malice and acrid annoyance. If it is a quiet "Bingo," I grumble to myself, "Why don't you call it louder so we can freaking hear you?" If it is a loud "BINGO," I grumble to myself, "Why don't you have some class and call it with some quiet dignity?" The only thing that makes me content when I'm playing Bingo: winning.





Blast the taunting of 4 in a row!










The prizes for winning Bingo aren't even that good. Most of the items can be bought at Costco for no more than $7. To a certain degree, I would rather keep the prize ticket as a battle scar rather than trade it in for a tub of Red Vines. But then again, there is something atavistic about beheading a Red Vine that one has earned through the hunt.

That's the rush of winning Bingo: that one can call out to a room of strangers and say, "I beat all of you. For this moment, I am the king of the entire room." How many situations in life provide that sense of domination?

Maybe I should relax a bit, though. I mean, my grandmother, who is well into her late 80s, enjoyed Bingo today on a very simple level. She can't walk very far anymore, and she gets tired very quickly, but even she was able to sit and patiently find pleasure in winning a consolation prize of seven cups of Maruchan Ramen noodles. She was elated to win. When she called her perfectly melodious Bingo, I couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Bingo isn't about power. Maybe Bingo isn't about beating the competition. Maybe there is some Buddhist about Bingo.

Maybe Bingo is about tradition—about sitting with my brother for the some-teenth year in a row and laughing about how badly I want B12 and he wants N42. Maybe, if I allowed it to be, Bingo would be just as fun without the prize tickets. Maybe that is the grand scheme of the Church of which I am not a member: to make me learn a lesson without actually attending a service.