Tag: Profiles

Fun experiences from underground poker

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An assortment of actual happenings from tonight’s poker game:

  • One guy deals the flop in the middle, then the turn on one side and the river on the other side. If you don’t remember the sequence of cards, you’re sure not going to be able to derive them.
  • We have chip denominations 50, 100, 500, 1000, and 5000. The only blind that uses a 50 is the first one: blinds start 50/100, then go 100/200, 200/400, 300/600, etc. We therefore have one denomination of chip for exactly one blind level! That’s comedy!
  • All-in AKs vs AQo preflop. Board runs out 86648 and we chop 😦
  • Ran AK into 99 on Q94A6. Lost 20k. Down to 6100 on a 20k starting stack. Next hand shipped A5o, called by QQ, spiked an A and we have a serviceable stack
  • Tables combine and we draw the ace for first dealer. We’ll take it!

After I bust in tenth place in the tournament (preflop 33 vs 8Q vs AJ, flop QJ4), I suggested a cash game to the other eliminated player. The host suggests we play 50cent / 1dollar blinds. She asks how much we want to buy in for: ten bucks? Twenty? I say “I’ll do fifty”. The other guy does too.

We set the blinds at $1/$2. They don’t organize the blinds in the generally accepted way, but it’s consistent so I accept it. Twice, the dealer (our host) deals the flop before giving us hole cards. She’s clearly very high. On one of these occasions, we just continue from the flop. The other player and I laugh very much. At the end of twenty minutes, I have all the chips. On our last hand, he doesn’t look at his cards til the turn. I flop two pair. He turns a pair of kings. We put in all our money. I win.

Down $60 in the tournament; up $50 in the cash game.

On Creeping

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Walking along the beach in Palermo, Italy, I spotted a couple sucking face. Not merely kissing nor making out: they were devouring each other. I had never seen two people so intensely impassioned, let alone in public for all to see. Dumbfounded, I paused my walk, fascinated. How had I been living my life so passionless? What is it about Italians that this is an acceptable cultural behavior? Where do I get some? 

After around thirty seconds, I grew self-conscious. What if they look over and see me staring? I don’t want to disturb them or prompt them to stop something they’re so clearly enjoying, but they have selected a very public place… 

A set of hip-height bushes lay between me and the couple. I thought, “I could crouch behind these bushes and keep watching”. Then I laughed because I had just derived how someone becomes a peeping tom. 

I didn’t hide behind the bushes. I continued my walk, filing this experience away in my memory as an archetype of passion and an understanding of how slight escalations can rapidly grow out of hand. 

—

Tonight, my ex is hosting a comedy show. I have always liked their art. I want to attend their show. 

I have no ill feelings toward them. Our relationship ended amicably. Since then, they have increased the amount of animosity expressed toward me. Still, I want to attend their show. 

Tonight, at the show, I don’t want to disturb them. If I could attend invisibly, I would. But the venue is probably small – 20 seats or so. What if I attend in a hat and an N95 mask? I’ll sit in the back. Maybe they won’t see me. 

I discovered this show’s existence because a friend was watching TikTok. A voice came on that I recognized. “That’s my ex!” I said. I watched a few of their YouTube videos, found their newsletter, and signed up. I didn’t want to make it awkward, however, so I signed up using a pen name. Then today, when buying the ticket, I used the same pen name.

I’m now walking to my ex’s comedy show, where I’ll sit in the back, alone, wearing a false name and a mask. 

Somehow, every step seemed reasonable. 

— 

At the show: 

They’re literally arms-length away from me. Talking over me to the person beside me. This is exhilarating. 

They pass out pens and paper before the show. The paper has a prompt. It’s about social anxiety. What’s a social interaction that you would handle differently? 

How apt. 

— 

Games played: 

While taking a shower this evening, my two-year-old nephew summoned me. 

Our games began with the red alligator. I used it to bite different items in the bath. He laughed. 

The game escalated, somehow, to him holding a plastic shovel in his mouth while I held a plastic rake in my mouth. He dropped his, prompting me to drop mine. He laughs. We repeat. 

He then handed me the alligator, wanting me to drop it from my mouth instead. We execute. He laughs. 

One time, after I dropped it, the alligator landed just in front of his body. He laughed hard enough that he peed a little. 

This led to our final game of bath time: him trying to put the alligator in my mouth while I refused. 

Next time, I’ll tell him why the game has changed. That way he can learn! 

—

Meta: 

I feel disheartened. Speaking into the void with minimal feedback that my near-daily Substack is appreciated or enjoyed makes me sad. Do you enjoy this? Read it daily? Once in a while? What do you like about it? What do you want more? Comment on it or reply to this email. I’m not trawling for engagement; I’m seeking connection. 

I <3 Ireland

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I landed in Dublin three hours ago. Three of my first five experiences: 

  1. Outside the airport, I ask a fellow whether we can tap-to-pay on the bus. He says we need euros in cash or a local transit card. We tell him we don’t have either. He initially pulls out a 5 euro note to give it to us, then realizes he can just tap us on instead, so he does. What a generous bloke! 
  2. Immediately after exiting the bus, Partner & I ask a bouncer at the local pub if they’re still serving food. He says no, but goes out of his way to suggest other options. This is not typical bouncer behavior. 
  3. A short walk later, a college-looking kid tells a homeless-looking man, “I’ll get ya tomorrow.”

I’m going to like Ireland.

Rest days, work days, and the Sabbath

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Weeks don’t end, they loop.

I prefer working on weekends. 

Perhaps it’s the contrarian in me. I enjoy having free time on weekdays and working on Saturday. It’s certainly not respecting the sabbath. But today I ran through a bunch of necessary items for my apartment renovation. Lighting, mainly. Also contemplating a particular business situation. 

This gym session, I missed my bench press again. I’ve now missed it 4x in a row. After 3x, it suggests I deload. I did not deload. I should have deloaded. 

It turns out that the body decreases strength gains when it is too intensely stimulated. If you’re not increasing gains, you might benefit from another rest day, not another gym day. This is tough for me. So a program where I can still go to the gym, just at a lower level of intensity, is good. Better. Preferable. 

I’m learning about my body. Learning about intensity and how not to injure myself. Learning the value of pushing myself, but also the value of relaxing and resting. 

I like this style. I like this growth. I like this muscle. 

I can currently bench press 185lbs for 3 reps. When I can bench press my bodyweight, I will benchpress Partner. I might only be 12 weeks away. How nice it is to have a long-term goal. 

Humans experience beautiful variation. I like working on Saturdays and Sundays, and prefer taking some weekday afternoons off to compensate. Plenty of people (most, even) prefer the typical workweek. Maturity is a process of learning yourself. Plus I can get a pickleball court without waiting for 45 minutes. And weekday lunch specials / theater tickets are delish!

Then again, one friend of mine stays up until ~5am, then sleeps til the afternoon. He thinks it’s healthy. In his case, I disagree. 

Rock Never Dies

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When I initially read the description of the Times Square Hard Rock Cafe show “Rock Never Dies”, I did not expect my review to be too much plot.

Had the show simply contained a loose plot of a time traveler going year by year, visiting great musical performances while out-of-work Broadway actors portrayed them on stage, that would have been enough. Had they removed the plot entirely and simply had a cover band with reasonable impressions of famous rockers, that would have been enough.

Instead, the audience received a melodramatic, plot-intensive weave through a young woman’s relationship troubles, the death of her father, her ouster from a rock band, her Scrooge-like visiting of historical female rockers, and a Prince who cannot play guitar. At one point during the show, stagehands deliver small lunch boxes to the tables. In these lunch boxes are multicolored ping pong balls, which we are encouraged to throw at the performers. I do not know how the performers feel about this. Perhaps they are excited to be involved in any sort of theater at all. I imagine it’s quite nice when you are an actor to have a job. I also imagine it is unenjoyable to have ping pong balls thrown at you.

When I was 15 years old, a friend and I used to play a game called sting pong. The game is played much like ping pong in that it starts with a point of ping pong. However, after the point, one player whacks the ping pong ball as hard as they can at the other player’s chest. Did I mention the game is played shirtless? It leaves welts. What can I say: we were teenage boys.

During tonight’s performance, the engenue protagonist, named Caroline, boasts four impressive features. The first is her singing voice, which is stunning. The second is her makeup, which is striking. Not striking in a good way, necessarily: simply striking, as though it is made to appear to an audience member in the 60th row and no one considered that the farthest audience member is only ~10 feet from her. The third and fourth are her left and right breasts, which are displayed before her in a clearly-intentional boosting. 

During the ball-throwing, one audience member was clearly attempting to land a ball between her breasts[1]. Another audience member commented how this was rude. I studied philosophy in undergrad. One key part of philosophy of ethics. One topic that we never discussed within my ethics schooling: If you are tasked with throwing ping pong balls at actors during an immersive theater event in Times Square, is it more rude to aim at the performer’s cleavage? In fact, I suspect it would be preferable if I were on stage to have someone throw said ping pong balls at any part of my body other than my face, and if the protrusion of my breasts attracts them to select this fleshy and soft part of my body rather than, as they say, the money maker, I would appreciate that selection. 

At the end of the show, I told the master of ceremonies – Egbert – that he had done a great job and suggested to him that he had been my favorite performer. He said thank you and that I had brought an incredible energy. It’s true: my table had been the most fun. First was me (always game to sing rock songs and throw ping pong balls at performers), then the four drunk women in their sixties, visibly on a girls’ trip together to New York City, who yelled “Boo!” and “Leave him!” at various points of the show as though they were heckling at a melodrama. The third most passionate was a man whose response to each performer mentioned was to tell us “I saw them live”. Least joyful was the woman one table away from us, who not only shot my table dirty looks but also threw the plastic ping pong balls at us rather than the performers. 

I received the tickets at an incredible discount, and it was worth every penny. Where else can you get a three-course meal, two ample breasts, and an egg-shaped maraca with which to demonstrate your enthusiasm? 

Plus, I can now say I’ve eaten at the Hard Rock Cafe in Times Square. I hear that is how one becomes a New York City local. 

[1] I recall teenage friends of mine playing a similar game at ~age 15, and dubbing it “boobsketball”. 

Funcle 2: the Re-Funcling

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When my sister birthed her first child, the world stopped. Oma and Opa booked a dozen cancellable flights in case of varying timings, then flew into town a week early. Partner & I waited around, there simply to be there in case we might maybe be needed. 

Today, my sister birthed her second child. This one was less of an event. Neither was particularly event-ful, but this one simply less. No one is staying up late to see the baby. Partner is on the other coast, returning here in a week. I’m sure I’ll swing by at some point tomorrow to see my new nibling, but nothing is planned and it’s all very chill. 

I wonder if primogeniture comes from that new-ness. From the fact that, for a first child, there is no competition. If grandparents were to be temporally equal, for instance, they should give the second child more attention than the first kid. The first kid had a few years of only-ness. A parent may love all their children equally for their whole lives. The first kid still got more love. 

It may equally come from implementation ease. Youngest kid is less predictable and less stable. It creates even more resource competition between siblings, and kids have enough of that as is. 

I’m excited to love my newborn nibling. Now that I know how to love a nibling, I’ll be more skilled in some ways (my nephew taught me). But I’ll also probably be a bit calcified to him (my nephew taught me how to be a funcle for him). Habits don’t die; they simply go underground. 

My job is to treat this kid as its own person. To show up and hold them and learn who they are. To learn who I am in their presence. To build our own relationship. 

I’m delighted to meet them. I’m excited to be their friend. 

Three unrelated experiences

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Today was a travel day. Here are three funnies. 

Me, after entering a packed elevator: “Okay everybody, jump on three. One…” 

Everybody laughs. 

A guy in the back of the elevator: “Two.” 

— 

The woman in the high-viz vest with the light-up wand directing traffic at the Houston airport does not use the standard hand signals. Instead of waving the traffic forward or gesturing with an outstretched hand for stop, she whistles twice for go and whistles twice for stop. The traffic appropriately fails to understand her. 

—

“Hey what’s your name, Tarzan?” asks a man on the NYC street as I stroll by, shirtless. 

It would appear he answers his own question. 

[Partner says she walked by the same guy later, and he asked, “Hey, where’s Tarzan?” 

How glorious it is to be a funcle

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To win, keep the game going. To keep the game going, drink what you’re given.

At 11:15am this morning, I asked my brother-in-law to set a 30-minute timer. I then sunscreened the tops of my feet and I entered the kiddie pool. My nephew (just shy of 2 years old) was playing squirt with my father. Squirt is played as follows:

  • One player (the toddler) hangs on the water squirter in the kiddie pool. Sometimes he moves.

That’s it. That’s the game. If you think that’s not a game, you’ve probably never played with a toddler.

Our next game was more active. My nephew rotated the water squirter to hit me. I flapped my arms up in the air and emitted a “wah!” noise reminiscent of Waluigi from the Nintendo games.

After water-squirter-based games, my nephew wrapped his arms around a beach ball, then tried to pelt me with it. He failed. He cackled. He chased it down. He repeated.

It was around this time that my sister (Nephew’s mother) said something to me from outside the pool. I asked her to repeat it. She said, “We’re not watching him”, implying I was in charge of this tiny tot’s life, surrounded by 9 inches of murder-liquid.

Whoa. Big responsibility.

Nephew found a truck. His truck. His dumptruck. He filled it with a green cup. He dumped it out. He repeated the cycle.

Finally, we struck upon the game of the day: Nephew fills the green cup with water, then holds it out for Funcle (me) to drink. Funcle mimes drinking the cup, using only his mouth (no hands!). Nephew cackles. Nephew fills the cup again. This time, Funcle grips the cup using his lips. He drops the cup with a “blah!” sound, imitating the sound of a blub-blub fish.

Repeat this game for 15 minutes.

You might think this game gets boring.

It does not.

At 11:45am, my brother-in-law told me my alarm had gone off, prompting me to check on Partner. I tagged in Oma to ensure the Nephew stayed safe, checked on Partner, and returned to the kiddie pool after learning Partner was on her way down.

The games continued.

Have you ever reminisced about something from a mere 9 hours ago?

How glorious it is to be a funcle.

Finding My People

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Most of success is just showing up. But showing up to the right place… 

Before I moved to New York, I told my Partner that merely by living here, I’d find work. There’s so much economic opportunity in this city that I’d harness some.

One month in, I met a former founder who hired me to ghostwrite a blog post.

Three months later (two weeks ago), a random VC firm pinged me on LinkedIn about a private-markets mixer. I signed up. Yesterday, the organizer texted to make sure I was actually coming.

En route to the club, I noticed that I smelled. So I ducked into a CVS for deodorant. Not a good start.

I entered the club at 3:51pm. The doorman made me take off my hat. Getting worse.

At 4pm, the hosts arrived. They’d expected a room more suited to their needs: an open room, not a big table ringed with chairs. Rough continuation.

Upstairs, another host told me to take off my hat again. Ugh, come on. 

For the next 90 minutes, I met mostly people in wealth management and late-stage investing. Not my areas.

But then! Someone walked in with a pep in his step, someone I immediately pegged as Interesting. I snuck my way over. He grows hydroponic ginseng for a healthy soda company. He sold his last startup, a guitar-amplifier company. Now he wants to bring this healthy soda to the world.

And another! A guy doing video-based sabermetrics for sports other than baseball. And he’s complaining about marketing. These are my people. The ones I can help.

We exchanged emails. I’ll message them about coffee.

All in all, a very successful meeting.

If you show up as your specific self, you’ll meet the people you can actually help. 

Also, I ate 4 lamb lollipops, 2 falafel balls, and 1 small slice of fig pizza. I count that as a win.

Games Played

Me at the bathroom supply store: “Are you salaried or paid on commission?” 

Salesperson: “I’m not going to share that information.” 

Me in my mind: <Commission it is.> 

A Conservatory-Trained Beggar

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The goal of the game is to survive. You survive by earning a living. You earn a living by choosing the corner, not perfecting the song.

His sign reads “food for my baby and / my family can you help / me with a job / God bless you”, and hot damn can this guy play violin.

The last time I saw a violinist of such emotional expression, I located her on instagram, spotted she was recently married, and messaged her anyway to ask her out. She did not respond. 

This guy stations on Broadway between 88th st and 89th st, outside the shuttered retail store beside the Wells Fargo. He plucks. He strums. He fingers. He twangs. He draws a crowd.

The crowd contains a woman sitting on her walker, her caretaker, a woman of about 60 who offers me a tissue when she hears me sniffle, and Yours Truly. Not a bad crowd for a horrendous location.

Five children pass with their two adults. They stop. The male adult says “this is Mozart”.

When passing through Lisbon, I met a local trumpeter. He asked where I live. I told him New York. He loves New York. He can earn $800 or $900 per day in 3 or 4 hours of play, he told me. He played on the east side of Central Park, by the fountain where the summer sailboats swim.

This violinist, in 15 minutes, made maybe $5. $20 per hour is not the rate you’re looking for, my guy. You want a spot with greater throughput.

Just as musical skill does not determine a musician’s popularity, musicality does not determine a busker’s success.

A busker sells music. And like any retail in New York, location matters. But his store is even more tailored.

His sign asks for a job. He doesn’t need a job. He needs to make this one work.

He plays a few classical pieces, then a jewish one. He might know he’s on the Upper West Side (a Jewish hub). I wonder if he knows something I don’t know. I don’t think he does. But how would I know? 

I thanked him for decorating my space via a $3 venmo donation. I had just spent $3 on 18 ounces of blackberries. The least I can do is contribute an equivalent amount of thanks to him.

Hold up: he’s now looping. I’ve heard this song before. From him, like 10 minutes ago.

Are these his only songs? His only moneymakers? Does he loop the same 10-minute concert? That would be very New York of him. My first time living in New York, I donated to a guitarist in Central Park when he played a song of emotional resonance to me. I only realized when I returned the following day that he plays that same set on loop because my song has emotional resonance for everyone.

Most of the donations come from passers-by, not from the crowd. The crowd helps: without us, fewer would stop and listen. But this guy is good enough that he would grab attention even if I weren’t here.

Around 15 minutes in, the battery on his backing track died.

Location and preparation: not his strengths. Violin: absolutely.

I once spitballed with a friend the idea of A/B testing homeless beggar signs. What works, where, for whom.

The problem with that business, aside from the ethical qualms: an unreliable workforce. Data collection and reliable money collection: not good.

I wonder how much I could make as a beggar in NYC. If I cosplayed and A/B tested. What is a beggar but an emotional street performer? This violinist creates beauty. The beggar creates pity. A clown creates joy. French beggars prostrate themselves. American ones open doors to Dunkin Donuts in hopes of capitalizing on the reciprocity. 

I bet I’d enjoy A/B testing different begging in NYC. And by “begging”, I include street performing in general. Be a psychic one day, a debater another, a jokester a third.

The performer’s baby watches videos on a cell phone. Its mother (presumably his wife) swipes. The king’s kids just call him dad.

After the performance, the audience member with the tissue introduces herself as Vicky. Vicky tells me if she were eating the blackberries I was eating, she would have spilled them all over herself. I offer her a clamshell of blackberries. She declines. I tell her about my favorite fruit vendor, where they’re only $1 per 6oz clamshell. Vicky tells me the performer is conservatory-trained, from Venezuela. Everyone around her becomes successful, she says. She tells me the violinist used to play a block south. Now he’s here. Vicky asks for my information and I tell her about my trumpeter friend. I approach the performer to scan his Venmo. Vicky tells the violinist I have something to say. I ask him, through a translator: how did he choose this place? He tells me he lives in the Bronx. I say this street: how did you choose this street? He says by walking (which I interpret as arbitrary). I tell him that my buddy the trumpeter used to play at that location in Central Park and made $800 in 3-4 hours. Vicky says she’ll miss him.

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I’d like to. But if I don’t, is that better?