9.15.2024
The Weed of Hope
8.04.2024
Games are Not Supposed to Be Fun
7.31.2024
Take the W
7.22.2024
Stray Cats
7.07.2024
A Mild Sense of Relief
I’m bad at gambling. I suppose that requires elaboration. In the early 2000s, poker enjoyed a kind of renaissance. They put it on TV. John Malkovich donned a legendarily strange accent in Rounders. And college campuses across the country were filled with low stakes home games. But they felt like the World Series of Poker. In Tim and I’s one bedroom casino, we used clay chips, used a felt table which was easily the most expensive piece of furniture in the apartment, and kept a running ledger of the P&L of every kid who walked through the door. Weinhard’s Root Beer flowed like water while Tom Waits serenaded us. We were 20 and laying the groundwork for future degeneracy.
They say it’s a lifetime of poker.
And if you go by the ledger, I’m up. I’m a profitable player. By a lot. I make money. But to quote Mike quoting someone else, “In his book Confessions of a Winning Poker Player, Jack King said, ‘Few players recall big pots they have won— strange as it seems— but every player can remember with remarkable accuracy the outstanding tough beats of his career.’”
Like I said, my lack of prowess stems from a strange place. Poker is painful to me. Winning produces a dim reprieve from the burden of not having accomplished my goal. It’s negative reinforcement. Removing the boot of success from off my throat so I can breathe. Accomplishment evaporates. It is cotton candy in the mouth leaving you haunted by the ghost of your previous self. Losing, however, is carved in your chest with a knife. To complicate matters, losing is a tremendous motivator. Aaron Sorkin’s Billie Bean said, “I hate losing. I hate it. I hate losing more than I want to win. And believe me. There’s a difference.”
If only losing were discouraging. I could just quit and we could be done with this nonsense. But, it sets fire to my guts. It isn’t a righteous, “Lose Yourself” fire. It’s a dull, throbbing pain. And victory is the extinguisher. It makes me better. Forces me to learn from my mistakes. To study my tactics and improve them. The feeling is so potent, it verges on worrisome. I become a man of singular focus: the John Wick of never feeling this way again. The line between determination and obsession is virtually non-existent. They are neighboring shades of gray. Only history decides which side of the fence you end up on.
Not enough people talk about what a maniac Michael Jordan was. Mamba mentality is a productive mental illness. With great achievement comes magnificent sacrifice. Greatness requires emotional anorexia. It demands you look in the mirror and not see your achievements. Only what is lacking. Only what you haven’t done. Victory dysmorphia. It is precisely this unfillable void which propels us to a Sisyphean nightmare of success.
I once lamented I wouldn’t make a good parent because I can’t stand the sound of a baby crying. The shriek accosts my eardrums in a way that I can’t ignore. My friend’s reply shocked me. She said, “You’re supposed to hate the sound of a baby crying. It’s precisely because you can’t ignore it that you’d be a good Dad. It would be concerning if you could ignore it.” Aversion can be productive. Perhaps necessarily so.
So when I say I’m bad at gambling, that isn’t quite accurate. The ledger says I’m fantastic at gambling. My chest says otherwise. What worries me is that I can’t have one without the other.
7.04.2024
We
It’s America Day. My US-based company gave me the paid day off. Bruce Springsteen blaring from my tape deck before heading to a BBQ with my friends. Felix is basking in the God’s sunshine pouring through my kitchen window. After the gym, Ima watch ID4 and get teary eyed at the We Will Not Go Quietly into the Night speech.
I’m a goddamn meat-eating, personal responsibility preaching, crushing-Budweiser-on-hot-day American. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and making something of yourself. I’m an existentialist. And I subscribe to the radical freedom newsletter.
There’s a lot to love about this place. We forget that sometimes.
But also.
“Born in the USA” is about a disillusioned Vietnam vet’s return to an unwelcoming America. The beef industry ravages the environment as one of the leading causes of climate change and criminally mistreats the animals I conveniently divorce from their face-having origins. Steak tastes better when it comes from blue styrofoam and not from a calf suckling at her mother’s teat. Felix is my neighbor’s cat. The sun is nice though. No notes. Independence Day is a power fantasy about how the US is the world’s savior. But time has shown Will Smith to bear little resemblance to the charming, brave, and noble hero he portrays. Budweiser is owned by a Belgium company called AB InBev. Jean Paul Sartre abandoned existentialism in favor of Marxist ideals.
There’s a lot to lament about this place. We forget that sometimes.
America is that boyfriend who eschewed authority, tread his own path, and smoked cigarettes in a leather jacket in 100° heat. And we’ve been together for a while and we’re a little tired of his shit. Instead of a rebel maverick, they seem like petulant children refusing to put their shoes on. America is the season 8 of Game of Thrones we deserved. We’re munching popcorn watching crumbling ideals give way to selfishness and tyranny. We landed on the moon, and we hosted the most recent presidential debate. Sit with both of those for a while.
Our fierce insistence on independence propelled this country. It made us great. But “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” only takes you so far. At some point, we must relearn to collaborate. To grow. To realize there are systemic issues which plague our meritocracy fantasy. Yes, we worked hard. Yes, we never gave up. But we had the wind at our back and we refuse to acknowledge anything but our own sweat is responsible for our success. Faster alone, further together. America was built by the “I,” but will only survive as a “We.”
To love anything is to be conflicted. Being a fan requires a lot of nuance. From Woody Allen to Anti-Flag, we must sit in the uncomfortable place of loving and respecting their work, and being ashamed and embarrassed by their behavior. Cancel culture will give way to uncomfortable love. The longer we live, the more ambiguity we must reckon with. We are always A-in-the-mode-of-not-quite-being-A. Our identity will always be unstable, in flux, and at issue.
America is neither the greatest country on earth, nor are we heathen infidels. We made rock and roll, but we stole it from the blues. We built an empire of prosperity on the backs of slaves. Tonight I encourage you to celebrate this country. It’s ours and it’s special. It has a lot to love. But it’s certainly not perfect, and its greatness is up for debate. Before the fireworks tonight, before the America, Fuck Yeahs, before the hot dogs and sparklers, listen to the demo version of “Born in the USA.”
It hits different.
6.01.2024
And I Took That Personally
5.19.2024
Thrift Store Audiophile
5.12.2024
Steady as She Goes
5.10.2024
Adam, Not the Atom
5.09.2024
The I in Ennui
It is my day off. I’m drinking unconscionably carbonated Topo Chico on my porch, with a jet black neighborhood kitty fighting my keyboard for a spot on my lap. It’s in the mid-seventies and I’m in the shade. I put on real pants to grab a bagel from the spot down the street from my house with Kendrick disassembling Drake on the Aux.
This is not how I imagined happiness. If I’m lucky, I’m just about past the staples of my life. I had assumed there would be something more than this. Something more persistent and profound. Where’s the mythical oasis rolling the red carpet and ushering you into a festival of fireworks and mouth stuff?
Today I understand a bit of philosophy I studied over twenty years ago. This asshole, Jean Paul Sartre describes a phenomena called the negatite: the origin of negation. For my three friends who all understand Sartre better than me, don’t @ me. Be with me in spirit as I water down this concentrate. To be a person, is to experience the world as a special kind of being. One whose very existence is an issue for it. Stuff is designated as in-itself. Human consciousness is a for-itself. And we demonstrate this through negation. Don’t swipe yet. We’re almost there. Essentially, to be human is to project our desires onto the world. We experience the world as incomplete because we desire something more. But the world is solid through and through. It lacks nothing. We create the holes in the universe. It is our unfulfilled desires which create nothingness.
And this tiny afternoon, I felt the lack subside. The life I hoped for is gone, but the world remains the same. It is us that lacks, not the universe. We are entitled to nothing. The world does not owe us a dream. It doesn’t care about your self-fulfillment, your art, or your happiness.
Today I choose to shut up and enjoy a lovely day, a bunting kitty, and a schmear thick enough for the FBI to identify dental records after a good chomp. Maybe this is all there is. And maybe that’s enough.
…
Goddamn it. I was going to end it there, but then something annoying dawned on me. It’s not enough. I’ve been advocating for renunciation. Give up your dreams, and hopes. Renounce your desires and you can be happy. But that’s not quite right. That’s bad faith. That’s treating yourself like stuff. It’s ignoring the part of you that is supposed to dream, to reach for something more than what is. We must project the lack. The TL:DR of Sartre is shut up or kill yourself. Ultimately, you are subjected to radical freedom. It’s a burden. It’s not always a righteous guitar solo. We hide from it. It’s too unwieldy. Fucking hell. Fine. I get it. I still need to dream. We can’t shake the feeling of being perpetually unfulfilled. Good game, Sartre. Perpetual discomfort. Copy. Incessant wrestling with our nature and purpose. Got it. This shit is exhausting.
5.05.2024
Data Points
4.01.2024
Insert Loved One Here
3.31.2024
Describe in single words only the good things that come into your mind about your mother
3.17.2024
Nickisms
3.16.2024
Say Uncle
2.12.2024
True North
1.21.2024
Silver
"He who has his why can endure any how." - Nietzsche
Greatness, as it pertains to sport, the arts, and achievement, is the result of majestically broken individuals. It shines the most forgiving light on the most productive illnesses. I've been seduced by the pursuit of greatness. But make no mistake, all greatness is born of sickness. It is for those who dedicate their lives to unclimbable hills, who will give everything to edge their competitors, and sacrifice their sanity to make a dent in the universe. And while I do not sit on the throne of Mount Olympus gazing at the peasants below, a fire burns within me to join them at the summit.
But, like, who gives a fuck? The podium won't bring you Gatorade and magazines when you're sick. Your trophy room won't call you on your birthday. Awards can't spoon you at night, nestling your Achilles heel between their big and long toe.
Why then? Every Olympian dedicates their life to an endeavor. They all can't be Rocky. Some of it has to be biology. Lance Armstrong has a super human lung capacity. Michael Phelps is biologically engineered like a fish. Alex Honnold's Amygdala literally doesn't fire. He is sinewy Daredevil, the man without fear. Let's leave aside the GOATs.
Let's assume it a pure meritocracy. That effort in approximates performance output. Competition measures our proximity to gods. To what extent can we leave behind our bone shelves and skin curtains and execute perfectly?
Every GOAT necessitates a generation of losers. Imagine a world where Gauguin fucked off to the tropics and painted like shit? What fascinates me are the ones who sacrificed everything and came up short. The gamblers who bet big and had to answer to the loan sharks.
What drives a person to chase achievement rather than human connection? My first thought is that they are interrelated. People seek out the best. However, this argument quickly disintegrates under scrutiny. Experience shows us a long history of those who would leave behind personal connection for the pursuit of excellence.
Excellence is a chronic disease. Once it's infected you, there is no turning back. It's a high whose withdrawals are crippling. And anyone who's glimpsed it, who's basked in that sun, knows there is no substitute. The faint echo of greatness is a siren song louder than a Black Sabbath concert. It whispers to you like the One Ring.
My best friend's Dad once said, "We're all heroin addicts. Some of us just don't know it yet." To those who've never been haunted by the ghost of greatness, be thankful. This life is a drag.