Category: General Gabbing

A variety of delighting sights; a smattering of happenings; a compendium of concepts…

What If It Were Easy?

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The goal of the game is to do. You do by removing friction. 

A few years ago, a shaman watched me explain something I was struggling with. Then he asked, “What if it were easy?”

The friend with me said, before I could answer: “Julian associates difficulty with value.” 

He wasn’t wrong. I think most people do. We assume that if something is hard, it must matter; if it’s easy, it can’t be the real thing. Cultures everywhere reinforce this: no pain, no gain; if it burns, it’s working. 

But sometimes a thing is hard because it’s valuable, and sometimes it’s hard because of friction. Both feel difficult. They’re worlds apart. 

I notice the difference most clearly with games.

When I’m playing a game I love, three things happen: 

  1. I pay attention without effort. 
  2. I want to improve. 
  3. When it ends, I want more. 

This feeling – total absorption, no friction between me and the activity – is rare and precious. Most activities require me to push myself to do them. Games don’t. They grab me by my noggin and suddenly I’m along for the ride. 

A movie buff once told me he loves movies for the immersion. I experience immersion with movies sometimes. With books and theater, sometimes. With games, almost always. That’s information about me, not about games. Games are my art form.

This week I made a list of things in my day I find unenjoyable. Except for the entries about physical pain, every entry was a type of friction: either current or future. Some friction is necessary as a means to an end (waiting on hold with a doctor’s office). But some of it is inherited assumptions about how a life is supposed to feel.

If the shaman asked me again today, I’d answer: I think more of it is supposed to be easy. Not all of it. But more than I’ve been letting it be.

I’m game. 

The $10.125 Sandwich

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The goal of the game is selling sandwiches. You sell sandwiches by making it fun. You make it fun by taking fun seriously. 

I bought a sandwich today. The sandwich shop offers a cute promotion: from 3 to 6 pm, if you call a coin flip correctly, you pay half price. 

It’s fun, it’s attractive, and they net 75% of the normal retail price. 

But the experience is broken. 

First, you don’t pay until after the flip. So I, who sees loopholes without trying, am instantly aware that I could order the sandwich, flip the coin, and walk if it lands the wrong way. How would they even develop a process to stop me? I pay full price and then the flip determines my refund?

Second, the coin. It’s some B.S. commemorative coin — one side is the restaurant name, the other the logo — where neither side is obviously heads or tails. So the cashier has to tell me, and presumably every patron between 3 and 6pm, “this side is heads.”

Third, the flip. Less a flip than a half-spin. He calls it whichever way it lands in his hand. Not even the catches-it-and-slaps-it-onto-the-back-of-his-other-hand move that’s standard on any schoolyard.

What happened to the good ol’ quarter?
Why are we making this more complicated than it needs to be?
Why can’t the customer flip the coin onto the counter, where it would be easily visible?
Why not call the sides “name” and “logo” instead of heads and tails? 

The sandwich was good. It satisfied my basic need – fuel after the gym so I’m not grumpy. It wasn’t $13.50 good. It’s definitely $6.75 good. It’s probably also $10.125 good (the expected cost). 

Here’s what bugs me. The promotion could have been theater. A customer walks in, gets drawn into a small moment of drama, calls it in the air, wins or loses, laughs either way, tells their friends. Instead it’s a transaction with a dice roll bolted on. The cashier is phoning it in. The coin is wrong. The flip is wrong. The ritual isn’t a ritual.

The fun version costs them nothing. Same margin, same coin-flip odds, same sandwich. Just a real coin, a real flip, and a cashier who understands he’s running a tiny game show for thirty seconds a day. 

And sure, if there are people in line behind me, by all means do the quick version. But the main reason they’re doing this promotion at all is because they don’t have many patrons between 3 and 6pm. 

If they fixed it, I’d come back. If they fixed it, I’d bring people. The half-time half-price is nice; the experience could also have value. 

Also, I called heads and it landed tails. 

Content is what you know. Method is how you think. 

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To play well, you must find the method. To find the method… well, that’s part of the method. 

Today I met a cabinet rep who knew, off the top of his head, that the tambour door came in 24, 28, 32, and 36 inches. That’s the content, and, as one data point, it’s not yet impressive. But the fact he can rattle off seemingly every dimensional trait for multiple different cabinet styles and product lines across multiple brands? That’s beautiful. It’s like showing a chess master the opening few moves of a historical game and seeing him place it precisely. 

But content you can find in a book. Trivia is by its nature trivial. What you can’t find in a book: method. 

Repeatedly, he heard our proposals and improved them. He looked at a 79-inch space, listened to what I’d planned (two 36-inch cabinets, side by side), and proposed: a 30 and two 24s. Total: 78 inches. Gives you 6 more inches of cabinets. 

After he did this a few times, I isolated his method: 1) Map the dimensions of the space. 2) Subtract standard sizes from total length. 3) Find the combination that leaves the minimum remainder.

The content — knowing the sizes — is the raw material. The methods — including “subtract to find the minimum remainder” — is what makes him good at it.

A chess-master friend of mine thrives in certainty but buckles when he arrives at probabilities. Since I grew up playing poker, I rarely see certainty but am comfortable making positive-expected value bets. These games teach different skills. For him, it’s the detailed, factual, calculation-heavy process of walking a specific position to its end. (It’s no coincidence he’s now in law). For me, it’s staying afloat until I see a spot with an edge; then pouncing on it. 

Having spent many years ghostwriting for top Silicon Valley founders, executives, and investors. I’ve enjoyed living in brilliant minds. One thing I’ve noticed: 

Experts can usually describe their content in detail, but most can’t articulate their method. A surgeon could tell you every action in her procedure. But she might not know that she’s left-handed and therefore angles every screw slightly off from where a right-handed surgeon would. That left-leaning screw is just something she does, and she might even recognize it as hers. But ultimately she knows more than she can say. 

Most people hire for content. What do you know? What’s on your resume?
Some hire for good method, assuming you’ll acquire content fast.

The worst are the ones who confuse content for method. They’ve memorized the right answers for the common cases. But they can’t handle a new scenario. 

Yesterday’s post in fewer words: 

  • Pattern-matchers have content without method.
  • Scientists have method that generates content. 
  • When I’m hiring a doctor, I want a scientist. 

The cabinet rep impressed me with his content. But we also shouldn’t ignore some of the other points of his method. “You sure you don’t want a panel on the side of the fridge? You’re gonna want to look at the wires and the side of fridge every time you enter your kitchen for the rest of your life?” 

The honest answer? Yeah, I’m game.

Money is Not Victory Points

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You win the game by maximizing eudaemonia.

Money is a unit. It measures a specific thing — perceived value, mostly — but it’s often treated as the score for the whole game. Stop confusing it for eudaemonia (a vibes-based measurement of how much one is living a satisfying life, derived from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics). Money is only one input, and it’s less weighty than friendship, work, impact, hobbies, and legacy. (Individual weights vary.)

Here are units that I or loved ones have applied to life in the last week.

Joy per calorie. A method of choosing what food to consume. One slice of candied orange brings me more joy than an entire non-dried orange. One slice of sun-dried orange may bring even more.

Attention-efforts. Measuring time not in minutes but in effort required to keep your attention on the task. This is like golf: low score is good. The lower the attention-effort, the more you’ll naturally do it (and, generally, the more you’ll enjoy it). I create the grocery list because it’s low attention-effort for me. Partner buys the groceries because it’s low for her. Both of us hate the other’s activity. Dividing the task into more precise chunks enables better isolating and optimizing. 

Keystrokes. How many discrete small movements it takes to achieve a task. (I presume it comes from a CS context where the number of operations mattered to a program.) My father uses this one — he texts “Y” for yes and “Ack” for “acknowledged.” With practice, by both minimizing and bunching together keystrokes into “chunks”, you’ll need fewer attention-efforts to execute the same program.

BTUs (British Thermal Units). The manner through which to keep Partner happy despite last week’s sweltering early summer here in New York City. A happy partner-hour is worth more BTUs than I’d otherwise run. (I installed an AC last week.)

Team alignment. A Partner addition. A vector with directionality (“for the team vs for the individual”) and magnitude. Use cases: “Are the other person and I aligned?” and “Is this person doing a selfish thing?” Also applicable in situations where your thoughts diverge from your feelings. When the Euclidean distance is too high, investigate. 

Money. Perceived value. Not to be confused with actual value.

A unit I used at 17 and now realize was terrible: Facebook friends. The game rewarded me for playing it. Turns out it wasn’t “social media” — it was an ad platform.

A unit I still use and probably shouldn’t: hourly rate. Old habit from the ghostwriting years, when optimizing it was most of the game. A better version: (joy-per-hour + dollars-per-hour) / attention-efforts-per-hour. More-precise denominator, richer numerator, honest about what I’m actually trying to maximize. 

As you age, you develop more precise units. You improve your own vision and you learn from friends. 

Thanks, Partner.

Wise to the Game

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A relaunch.

I’m most alive when I’m playing games.

A few months ago, my sister asked me about an unspoken rule in her business culture – an implicit game. I told her about games where explicit acknowledgment of the rule breaks the rule, and pointing that out is also against the rule. She thanked me and said I should write about the philosophy of games.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since.

Near the end of my senior year of college, I ushered my father into a room above the library and drew three circles on a whiteboard: writing, philosophy, and befriending eccentric people. In the middle I wrote the question that would pick my profession: “in what areas am I in the top 5% of my classmates?” 

The answer that fell out: befriend eccentric people, then write their philosophy.

Not wanting to be a starving writer, I asked one follow-up: who in that circle has money? Growing up in Silicon Valley, the answer was tech founders. I spent the next six years building that business and rose to the top of the technology ghostwriting industry. It was fun while I was growing. It’s not fun anymore. The game is too easy. 

So today I ran the exercise again, with the ikigai framework:

  • What do I love? Games. Learning new things. Befriending eccentric people.
  • What am I paid for? Writing.
  • What does the world need? Play. Whimsy. Fun.
  • What am I good at? Making complex things clear.

The answer that fell out is games, which makes sense: games are a bounded, examinable instance of the thing the world needs more of. If the world needs more play, games are where play can be examined. I learned this at clown school: the first course isn’t about humor or fun or jokes; it’s about games. 

The three pillars of this publication, going forward:

  1. Games.
  2. Eccentric people.
  3. Practical philosophy.

Writing is the medium. Speaking, eventually.

The new name is Wise to the Game. (My last name is Wise. It’s a pun. A double-pun? No: a triple-pun. Try to keep up.) 

More tomorrow.

The Sum

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The goal of the game is to keep the sum. You keep the sum by noticing who’s low. 

Partner and I play a game: we try to keep our sum competence level the same.

On a normal day, she’s the one who tells strangers their dog isn’t actually a schnauzer — it’s just cut like one. She’s the one who’d google the laws on dog-deterrents in the tree box, to get the annoying ones removed.

Today we met with a doctor, and afterwards she wanted to curl up in a ball. So she went to our cave of a bedroom, where she either napped or fiddled on her phone. And today I was the one who googled the dog-deterrent laws. I didn’t spot the schnauzer — I didn’t know to look. But the gym got visited, and we got fed. The sum held.

It goes the other direction too. Yesterday I noped out of what I usually handle — navigating, picking the food place — and she took us to Whole Foods where we bought my favorite oranges.

I don’t think this is an accident (at least on my side). When she’s doing well, we’d both rather I spend my attention elsewhere. When she’s doing worse, it’s worth the effort. 

One question this raises: if one of us is very competent, is it worthwhile for the other to be negative? 

I assume no, but let’s investigate. 

What’s the benefit to un-competence? Not merely the lack, but the negative. 

One piece is fun. Competence is goal-oriented. Un-competence is expansive, innovative, novel. Competence lifts the weight and puts it back down, thereby strengthening the muscle. Un-competence learns there is such a thing as standing on one’s head. 

Sometimes standing on one’s head raises new understanding of human biology. Sometimes un-competence creates a new joke. 

I wonder if other people play a similar game in their relationships. Or if it’s just me — if I’d do this with anyone.

It doesn’t strike me as a bad approach. If anything, it’s quite elegant. 

Game on.

Know what you’re hiring for (Apr 15 2026)

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As long as you do your job 🙂 

My contractor is excellent. Exquisite. Delightful. Perfect for the price point. 

His project manager is new.
Not in a bad way.
In a just-moved-to-the-U.S.-from-Pakistan-where-he-used-to-be-an-architect way.
In a living-with-eight-relatives-out-in-the-boonies way.
In a this-is-his-first-project-at-his-new-job-in-a-new-country way.
In a hungry way. 

Yesterday, he sent me a long email saying we need to stick to timeline.
I replied appreciating him for his work and telling him, respectfully, that the delays have all been on his side.
I also texted the contractor to follow up about a question he and I had discussed thrice, but that the project manager had a different conclusion on.
I received a reply that included both the answer I expected and a note that he was looking forward to seeing me tomorrow.
I replied: tomorrow? That works, but did we have a scheduled appointment? 

And at 8:36am, Partner prods me in my half-torporious slumber to say that project manager is en route.
I check my email. At 5am, the project manager emailed to say we were meeting at 9am. 

The amusing part is: this is actually fine. None of these minor hiccups have actually been problematic for the specific job I want him to do.
And also, if his timing is a bit slower because he’s green, we’ve signed a sufficiently solid contract to be okay in that eventuality. 

I’m still very sure that the project manager is a good fit, and that the contractor is excellent.
I’m also suspicious that the project manager might have been up all night working on my project. (He said he had sent the 5am email “last night” and I’m not sure when he slept before taking the metro north train in.)
And that he dresses differently depending on whether he is going to meet designers (black turtleneck on one occasion, stylish black t-shirt on another) or subcontractors (blue jeans and a baseball cap).
Lol.
Keep up the good work! 

Vandals & Volition (Apr 14 2026)

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Why can’t we all want the same things? 

Just outside our apartment, walking to The Park, Partner & I spotted a man kick a trash can. The can fell on its side, languishing in the street. 

Despite having an appointment in 40 minutes and Google Maps informing me the walk would take 38 minutes, I stopped to right the can. I lifted first its outer shell, plopping it back in its rightful place on the sidewalk, then its inner catching chamber, inserting this chamber into the shell. 

Walking away, I felt both smug and nervous. I caught myself sneaking glances at the vandal who had tipped it over. Will he notice? Come after me? Have I regressed the impact of his righteous fury, thereby inspiring it against myself? 

Just as I entered the park, he looked back toward the can, object of his anger. Noticing it was tipped, he crossed back across 7th avenue, re-set himself in the same position, and kicked it over again. 

And I, already too far and with other things to do, continued on with my day. 

Three hours later, I returned to find the can replaced in its proper location, save for the lid slightly open. Some other Good Samaritan must have contributed to the fight against entropy. 

But I’ll always remember the kicker’s determination. How inspiring it must be to have a clear, defined purpose. 

—

I found it: the best article ever written in America. I laughed. I cried. I hungered. I grew. Deeply worth the experience, especially for those of us who care about the journey of food and the food of journeying.

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/2026/05/best-free-restaurant-bread-america/686582/

—

And a quote from April 8th: 

“How come you’re incredibly detail-oriented when reading a contract?” – Partner, fishing out an egg from the pot of eggs I sous vided last night and clearly just missed one when I put them away.

Selections & Sewage (Apr 13 2026)

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In which Our hero explores options. 

Click here for the accompanying video. 

Today, Partner and I visited an appliance showroom. Here’s what we learned: 

  • Shower heads come with flow rate limiters. The national legal maximum is 2.5 gallons per minute. You can remove your flow rate limiter, as the salesman at the showroom once did. His shower subsequently shot water with such force that it knocked the shower door clean off and flooded his bathroom. 
  • If you buy a thermostatic shower handle, you can have infinite separate shower heads all pointing at you. The shower heads are each limited at 2.5 gallons per minute. The thermostatic valve caps out at 14 gallons per minute. So even with three shower heads you won’t lose water pressure! All you have to do is ensure you’re shipping the showerhead to a state that does not have more restrictive requirements (California and New York both cap showerheads at 1.8 gallons per minute)
  • Some faucets cost $150. Some cost $800. Some cost $2400. They all dispense water. The $800 vs $2400 is cosmetic. The $150 vs $800 can be functional. 
  • The cheapest toilets and the expensive toilets both will ultimately contain sewage. The cheapest toilets don’t have glazed piping, so over time the sewage will accumulate in the pipe. The mid-range vs expensive toilets are functionally equivalent, just with different aesthetics and different ease of cleaning the part that doesn’t touch sewage. 
  • No one makes a bidet seat in black. 
  • Everyone likes a toto toilet, especially if you’re getting one with a bidet. I’m not convinced. I enjoy a vigorous stream when shooting water around my anus. The toto toilets I have used are disappointing in this context. 
  • Linear drains (long, thin rectangular ones) in New York City are much more expensive than normal, square drains since they must legally be made of more expensive materials. 
  • Steam showers cost $5k, minimum. 
  • Neither Partner nor I like rain head showers. Our dislike, according to the showroom attendant, is a common perspective. 
  • I will likely be able to realize my dream of three showerheads all at once. Bully for me! 
  • One model of toilet costs just over $26,000. It is not made of gold. I did get to sit on it.

The empty longing of a holding pattern. (Apr 12 2026)

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In which Our Hero yearns. 

When a plane doesn’t yet have a safe runway available, the control tower tells the captain to “go around again”. The captain circles and circles, awaiting the change in this external event that will enable the hundreds of passengers to continue on with their lives. No one enjoys a holding pattern. Quite the opposite: it is during these unenjoyable intervals that we find ourselves “killing time”. 

The last few weeks have been versions of this activity. I’ve forwarded key aspects of incredible importance (my eye surgery; Partner’s jaw surgery complications fixing; Partner’s medical malpractice case; apartment renovations; my work). Yet we – Partner and I – are not living the lives we wish. 

We lift weights more days than not. We amble through the most beautiful park in the greatest city in the world. We cook and eat food that we enjoy. We watch Jeopardy over lunch or dinner, shouting out the answers we know (and a roughly equal number that we don’t). 

But still, we wish for more community. 

We moved into this apartment with the intent of living with others. Now, 2.5 months in, renovations have not started. They might not for another month. Then add 4 months for the renovations themselves. And it could be – probably will be – over half a year before we live with roommates we like, hosting weekly dinners and playing board games and shouting out Jeopardy answers with more than just ourselves. 

This period – this holding pattern – weighs on me. 

There’s no point establishing clear patterns and habits and routines when they will all change in a month. No point improving the infrastructure or systems in a home that will literally have different walls. No reason to stabilize on processes of engagement with my roommate (Partner) when we’ll need to live elsewhere for a while and then return to a different home. 

So we set ourselves on a month-long horizon. We establish temporary patterns. We work, and lift weights, and reach out to friends. We enjoy what we can. 

But still, each day, I want more. 

I want what we’re building. I want at least 5 people living here. I want to cook meals with others, to establish a weekly “Come over for dinner on Tuesday!” that invites a half-dozen people. A board game group and a poker group. I miss those activities. I miss them, though I’ve never had them. 

And that weight – the weight of wanting what I don’t have – is a heavy burden

for at least the next month. Or two. Or four. Or six. Or….