Tag: Writing

It’s hard to play the right amount of pickleball. 

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It’s hard to play the right amount of pickleball. 

I think it’s the addict in me who seeks the previous high. And yesterday was a high! Even the first two games today were exciting and nurturing. I played well; I enjoyed the hits. But then my body just crumbled. I couldn’t control my muscles; my shoulder hurt; I cared less about winning and more about being done. 

But I played two more games.[1]

Who was I playing these for? Not for myself, for I would prefer a bath and a foot rub and an early bedtime. Not for my partners, for I’m not contributing my best to our team. Nor to my opponents, for my vibe isn’t ideal. 

I have a rule in New York City: when you need to use the toilet and a toilet is available, use it. Too many times have I wanted a toilet but not had one present that I established a rule. (NYC, unlike Seoul, is shoddy on public toilets.) 

I should establish a further rule about pickleball: If your muscles are no longer supporting high-quality shots and you’re not in a tournament, go home. 

Once, during warm-up for the last game, I thought, “This is not going to be a fun one. I could bail now, set them up with a different player instead.” But today I had friends willing to play with me. I didn’t grow up with many of those. I overvalue them now. 

“Something… something… therapy…” 

[P.S. I also set a personal record today for the incline bench press. Come on, Julian! Be intelligent, not just bull-headed!]

[1] Is it even fair to call these “played”? Nay: I suffered through two more games. I slogged. I trudged. 

Culture beats strategy

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One of the players at the Riverside Park pickleball courts denigrates his teammates. He shouts “Come on!” when they miss a shot. He tells them how to improve. He’s the second-best player. No one wants to play with him. 

After my final match today, I hung back to chat with two of the players. Quickly, their comments changed to how awful it is to play with him. He’s good when he’s on. But what about those comments! And his complaints about the sun being in his eyes? Sure, it’s hard on lobs from the north side. But half of the shots he missed were groundstrokes! 

I laughed and listened and cracked a few jokes. I didn’t add to the opinions – gossiping about that player doesn’t help. 

One skill that clown school taught me: complicité. The ability to play with someone like they’re your best friend. The ability to know who’s minor (something like “follower”) and who’s major (leader). The ability to find joy and pleasure underneath suffering and failure and pain. 

This guy doesn’t have that. He’s not giving comments from a place of love. He’s not kind and gentle and light. His teammates suffer. 

His teammates don’t just suffer cognitively. They play worse. 

Pickleball is a team game. And it’s not one where a good player can cover their partner’s mistakes: The losing team is generally whichever team has the worst player. If you speak in a manner that makes your teammate worse, your team performs worse. 

There’s also an element of safety. Not only does your teammate perform mechanically worse when they’re self-conscious; they also perform worse as a teammate. There are plenty of circumstances where you and your teammate need to feel voids, fill space, and cover each other’s weaknesses. You also need to make macro-level shifts (if your partner doesn’t have a third-shot drop, you can’t close the distance to the kitchen). All of these improve when a player calmly observes the game. All of them suffer when a player feels nervous with their partner. 

Right before I joined this game, I felt nervous. After a few years off from pickleball, the rust was still coming off of my serve. I knew that I might miss some serves, which is a terrible sin (it’s a free win for the opponents!). But I also knew that I could make sure my peers enjoy the game. And in that case, even if I shank a serve or two, they’ll still want to play with me. Plus they’ll have a better time. Duh. 

My team won every game. 

You know how I said he was the second-best player? 

I’m the best.

My first gurgitation

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Today, Partner and I rode the subway to Diversity Plaza in Queens for the annual NYC momo crawl. (Momos are dumplings originating in Tibet and Nepal.) 

When we arrived, the lines were long and the entry fee questionable. $15 for the passport, and then a half-hour per momo line? We walked to the end of the two-block festival. On the main stage, a woman announced the start of signups for the momo-eating competition. Immediately, I approached her. First name on the list. Partner scoffed at joining: she only recently shifted from soft foods to normal food after a medical issue. The competition was scheduled for 90minutes later, at 4:30pm. We both suspected we wouldn’t still be at the festival. Still, I signed us both up, following my sister’s sage advice: in New York City, grab the opportunity when it presents itself, and offload it later if you need. 

Partner and I ducked into a kebab restaurant that my foodie friends had recommended. We ordered a samosa and had a long talk about an important topic. When we returned to the world, it was already 4:10pm. We walked back to the mainstage. 

At 4:40pm, the announcer summoned me on stage. First to eat 6 momos wins. I arranged the momos on my plate. He counted down. Go! 

I stuffed the first momo in my mouth. Delicious flavor popped. 

Then the second. Third. 

1 minute 16 seconds later, the victor claimed his crown. I earned second place, at ~1minute 30 seconds. 

In the second heat, Partner competed in the very seat I had taken for heat #1. To spare her jaw the hard work, she ripped the momo into pieces, prompting the announcer to comment, “Very interesting strategy down here…” 

Partner received last place. I received second place. 

We both won, in that we both ate free momos. Even my sister won, since Partner brought her the two momos she didn’t finish during the contest.

My strategic update for my next gurgitation competition: 

  • Stuff my mouth with as much food as possible. Chewing is a planar force: twice the food in my mouth is chewed in less than twice the time. 

Next year, if I return, I’m winning that competition. 

Give me mo’. Give me mo’. Give me mo! 

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”. 

Return to the brine

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Today I played pickleball for the first time in years.
My serve is rusty (and always was the weakest part of my game).
My reflexes are strong.
My touch is precise. 

At the beginning, I joined a middling game: a few people who think of themselves as rated at a 3.5 skill level. (Pickleball is the sort of game where everyone says they’re 3.5). 

The first game, I shanked 4/6 serves. I just didn’t have the mind-body connection. No idea what to do or how to do it. My team lost 11-9. 

The second game, I served 3 of 4 successfully. My team went down 11-3. (The opposing team hit every ball to my teammate, targeting the weaker player.) 

The third game, I served 8/9 successfully. My team won 11-5. I almost grabbed one shot on a rolling dive. When I’m playing a game, I’m completely in it. 

After the third game, I watched the remaining players. Only one game has players even close to my level. I’m certainly in the top 5 players out today, quite possibly top 2 or 3. Once I have my serve back, I’ll return to competitive. 

My serve has always been weak since I have no interest in practicing it. Every other part of the game, you can improve while playing. The serve requires drilling. (Why would I want to do that?) 

I watched for a bit, then headed home. I didn’t want to overdo it. I want to see how my knee feels tomorrow (after both the pickleball and the dive). 

I watched a few YouTube videos on serving. It’s amusing that I play so well but have such a poor serve. If I improve this one part, I level up drastically. (Turns out, that’s why.)

Maybe soon I’ll return to this park for more pickleball. It feels like running into a long-lost love that never broke up, simply petered out. It’s nice to see her, to touch her, to hold her hand in mine. The world is brighter when we’re together. The sounds quiet*, and the birds watch while together we dance. 

*dink, dink, dink… 

Too much insufficient conflict 

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I realized today that the amount of conflict in a relationship does not necessarily align with the quality of the relationship. 

One of my game-playing buddies is a high-conflict person. The two of us have a high-conflict relationship. (I bet he has a high-conflict relationship with everyone.) 

Another is a low-conflict person. I have never seen him in conflict with someone else. 

I enjoy playing games with each of them. 

Some family dinnertables are full of raised voices and spirited debate. 

Others are calm and gentle. 

Today I played a single game with both of those people: one on my left, the other on my right. Low-conflict on my left, High-conflict on my right. 

Mid-sentence, I caught myself code-switching. High-conflict person will make some super aggressive claim. I’ll tell him, “That’s insane. You should have done it this way instead.” Then I turn to low-conflict and ask calmly – like a kindergarten teacher: “What would you do differently?” 

High-conflict can get to truth faster, in an engineering sort of way. Low-conflict is more rejuvenating. High-conflict is the storm; low-conflict is the calm after. 

My main dissatisfaction with relationships stems from wanting high-conflict when it’s low-conflict, or vice-versa. And a specific relationship is not always best in a single state. Sometimes I’ll get annoyed at Partner for nitpicking something I say (implying she’s higher conflict than I desire at that moment). At other times, I’ll say to her, “I”m feeling spicy. Let’s fight about something” (I want more conflict than the moment is giving). Monty Python even has a line pertinent to the topic: a man enters an argument clinic to purchase an argument. In the middle of the argument, he says, “I don’t want to argue about that.” (at 3:22 in this sketch)

Most of my social dissatisfaction stems from wanting more conflict (feeling bored) or less conflict (feeling drained). 

As the Buddha would say, one must accept the conflict. Even the conflict containing insufficient conflict containing too much conflict, containing…? 

Yes, even the self-possessing recursion, spiraling ever downward. 

Depression: more fun to ridicule than wallow 

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The Real Ivanov, currently on stage in the East Village, is presented as a meditation on depression. I think that’s a mistake. 

There are two ways to approach depression:

  • To look at it as a comic activity; to ridicule it. That was Chekov’s choice.
  • To wallow in it. That is this play’s choice.

Ivanov, in this version, is an empathetic figure. He is someone depressed and unable to shake this difficulty. But objectively, he is a scoundrel: he married a rich woman, then her family disowned her, and all she does is love him, yet he has fallen out of love with her. Is it related to his money problems? He says no. Yet when his wife dies of tuberculosis, immediately he marries the daughter of the richest people in town. The juxtaposition between what he says and what he does is notable. If a man leaves the side of his tuberculosis-ridden wife to prompt a new relationship with a wealthy young woman, is that not a deplorable act worthy of ridicule? Yet this production plays it straight. 

Many of the scenes make no sense when played as a drama: Ivanov (our protagonist) goes to the richest woman in town, to whom he owes money, and begs her for another week to pay. She rejects him. A few scenes later, her husband goes to Ivanov and begs him to pay this man’s wife because she is haranguing him about it. That’s already somewhat of a funny circumstance: a man begging not for payment but for his wife off his back. Now, the husband pulls out a thousand rubles to give to Ivanov to give to the man’s wife, on the condition that Ivanov not tell her it’s from him. What a funny thing to do! Now, on top of that, add the fact that our protagonist rejects the money! What a ridiculous scenario! It’s like watching a circle of Loony Toons chase each other. Yet that scene in this production, much like the rest of them, is played dramatically. 

Throughout this performance, I was the only person in the audience laughing, frequently laughing because the manner I have found to enjoy this play is by imagining I’m reading the script for it while the actors are talking. I’m enjoying the script itself (it’s very well-written) and laughing at the difference between what they are doing and the humor in the script itself. 

This performance is to Chekhov like American Chinese food is to Chinese food. It can be simple and pleasurable if that’s your taste, but it lacks a certain depth of character.

After the play, I explained to my viewing buddy that this play could either be performed as a comedy or as a tragedy, and I thought this tragic choice was lacking. He said, “Are you sure it could be a comedy?” I showed him the poster: their tagline says, “A comedy about despair”. He said, “That was definitely not a comedy.” 

Next time, please make the audience laugh at the depression, not at the production itself. 

C-

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. 

Perhaps purpose is passion plus people 

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Today I introduced a friend who makes quantitative trading-teaching games to a friend who owns a chain of toy and game stores. 

We played a hidden role social deduction game for 3.5hrs. Then they discussed game theory late into the night. 

I pitched this buddy on moving to The City. In 2 days he’s met a handful of driven, interesting, intellectual people. He usually lives in a tiny town. He doesn’t get out much. It’s not healthy. 

I wonder if he’ll ever expand his possibilities and his capabilities. Or if he’ll collapse back into the short-term, brief-profit-seeking perspective he always has. 

—

The last few months I’ve focused on renovating an apartment. Hearing people discuss their passions and excitement is both energizing and deflating. I wonder where I’ll go after this renovation. A family, perhaps. Or an opening of activity into work… or both. 

I enjoy playing games. I enjoy bringing people together. I’ll keep playing games. Keep bringing people together. 

Into a dancer you have grown

From a seed somebody else has thrown

Go on ahead and throw some seeds of your own

And somewhere between the time you arrive and the time you go

May lie a reason you were alive, but you’ll never know

—

Games played

Just after midnight, as my buddy and I descended the steps into the subway station, a woman in a purple bathing suit followed. She muttered something about “Which way is this train going?” and “Who are you guys?” that we ignored. 

We paid our $3 to pass through the turnstile. She followed. 

We boarded the elevator toward the platform. The woman followed us. I tilted my head at my buddy. The woman lowered her top. 

Later, on the platform, my buddy commented: “She really must have thought we were good marks. Spent $3 and everything. And in the elevator, you see that?” 

I replied, “You know what that was?”

He said, “Advertising.” 

Welcome to New York

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A buddy had a Medical Issue. He hadn’t spent a night away from home for the last 6 months. I told him he should visit. I asked what he needs. He described to me a Minor Medical Necessity that he needs every day – something akin to using a needle to draw blood. He’s squeamish around blood, so a family member helps him. We hopped on video while his family member performed the task. 

I’m not super squeamish, so I gave the thumbs-up. Less than 24 hours later, he arrived to my guest room. 

Today at 1pm, we went to a play. At 4:10pm, we left the play. At 4:30pm, we arrived at a friend’s birthday party. At 8pm, I left the party. My friend stayed behind. The time is now 11pm. I assume he’s still there. He hasn’t socialized outside of his family in a long time. He’s a severe night owl. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out until 2 or 3am. 

His family member texted me, asking how the Minor Medical Necessity went. We haven’t done it yet. I didn’t expect him to stay out so late. Perhaps we’ll perform it when he returns at 3am. Or perhaps this “every day” will be a 36-hour stretch between two performings. It’s an odd situation where I’m responsible for doing it, but I don’t feel responsible for making it happen. (I’ve shared this perspective with him. He must habeas the corpus. If he’s out til 9am, I’m not going to see him til the morning.) 

I made for this guy a nice evening. I had a nice time at the birthday party. My friend enjoyed it even more than me. 

He just called me. He’s not coming back for a while. He’s befriended a few people. He wants to have them over for board games. I asked about the Minor Medical Necessity. He says it’s fine: we can do it in the morning. 

I’m not a doctor, and this wasn’t laughter, but I think ‘tis a helpful dose of medicine. 

The next morning I awoke to this message: 

Games Played: 

  • After listening to yesterdays npr story, one reader sent in the town of Show Low, AZ.