Words With Frentz

LJI Three Strikes, Week 3: "Morgenmuffel"

"Nor Gloom of Night"

Three streets to go, I mutter to myself. You're almost done.

As I park the vehicle, my Fitbit buzzes at me. I presume, at this point, it's trying to submit its own resignation letter. But no, it's a text from Jamie, my boss.

Can you check on Victoria when you're done?

The new gal. Of course. They probably gave her two hours too much, because everybody has two hours too much these days. Especially these days. "Sure," I text back, because Jamie doesn't ask this unless someone's in real trouble.

I look again to see the text has vanished. All that remains are three reminders of just how rough this is: the time (6:15pm), the date (December 3rd), and the number of steps (37,420).

I do some quick math as I try to organize packages into my satchel. I've got another hour or so on this route, then I have to get to Victoria and figure out what she needs. That's another hour, plus getting back to the office and closing everything out. So...8:30.

This math doesn't work out, but I can deal with that later. For now, just keep walking.

*****

I find Victoria in front of City Hall. "You holding up okay?"

She gives a wry smile. "Nope. The last guy they sent to help me said he didn't know how to do this section and took the easy stuff instead."

I shake my head and roll my eyes. "Why does it feel like I'm the only one out here who's willing to try new things? Present company excepted, of course."

She matches my expression as she flings open the back of her truck. "What can you help with?"

I take a quick glance around at the controlled chaos. Victoria sees my puzzled look. "I think there's a bunch of parcels that I missed earlier." I see what she means--there's stuff from all over the area.

"Okay, I'll take those. Meet you back at the last set of apartments."

"Sounds good," she says. "Thank you so much."

The parcels aren't very heavy, but they're scattered. I end up criss-crossing myself a couple of times delivering them, taking inefficient routes and having to backtrack.

Hey, you try solving the traveling salesman problem on five hours of sleep.

*****

By the time I finish the packages, check back on Victoria (she'd be fine), and get off the clock, it's nearly 9pm. Which means the math that didn't work out earlier now rears its ugly head. (And I like math, in general. For me to call it ugly is saying something.)

I now have about seven-and-a-half hours to do the following: drive a half-hour home, eat dinner, do some form of unwinding, actually fall asleep (a harder task than you might think), and get enough sleep to do this all again tomorrow.

Dinner a la 7-11 it is, then. No caffeine (which is gonna produce a headache in the morning, but what are you gonna do), I can eat as I drive, and hopefully it doesn't upset my stomach enough to make sleep more elusive than usual.

*****

What's that noise?

Oh, right. The alarm. 4:30am. I sit up to grab my phone, which is by design--if the alarm is close enough to turn off without getting out of bed, I will. (I could use the Fitbit, but it's overworked as it is.)

The headache isn't awful, but my calves feel like they're about to snap in half. As I idly scroll through Twitter to try to get my brain awake enough to drive, I once again contemplate whether this is all worth it.

"Surely people can live without their packages for a day around the holidays during a pandemic, right? Right?"

Wrong.

I throw on some clothes, run the razor over my face, and stagger out to the car by a quarter to five. At least I'm not doing this for some office job where I'd literally never see the sun.

I check the date on my phone: December 4th. Twenty-one more days. You can do this.

LJ Idol: Three Strikes, Week 2: "What Really Matters"

Focus

How do you choose?

Every day feels like a new verse of "We Didn't Start the Fire"--so many quarrels, dangers, and injustices to care about, keep track of, and fight against.

Oh, these times are so uncertain
there's a yearning undefined
and people filled with rage

Social media only amplifies these issues, each with some people screaming "this is the thing we need to focus on!"--but how do we focus on two hundred battles at once?

What are these voices outside love's open door
Make us throw off our contentment and beg for something more

Disinformation campaigns don't help, as all they serve to do is confound us into wild-goose chases, actually distracting us from the things that actually matter. Whatever those are.

The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again

I know my answer, and the Beatles did too. All you need is love.

Focus on loving those around you--including yourself--and you'll find your compass.

We all need a little tenderness
how can love survive
in such a graceless age?

Think less about how to win, and more about how not to lose anyone. Less energy spent debunking lies, more spent preaching the truth.

All the trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
are the very things we've killed, I guess
Our pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms
and the walls they've built between us
they won't keep us warm

And above all, recognize that nobody's perfect. We're all gonna screw this up, because we're all screwed up. Just keep swimming, and keep others swimming alongside you. That's gotta be good enough.

I've been trying to get down to the heart of the matter
because the flesh will get weak
and the ashes will scatter
but I think it's about forgiveness, forgiveness...

*****

Lyrical inspiration: Don Henley, "Heart of the Matter"

LJI Three Strikes, Week 1: "Black Rainbow"

Tiles and Tribulations

Over the last few years, I've been learning a lot about the various forms of neurodivergence and mental illness--and the ways in which society often treats the former as the latter. While I haven't been diagnosed with any of the major ones (ADHD, autism, depression, etc.), and have no real reason to suspect anything, I do my best to be sympathetic to those who live with them.

Sometimes, however, it's really freaking difficult.

We had a new player at our Scrabble club a few years back, before... ::gestures wildly at everything::. Let's call him Jake. Mid-20s, enthusiastic, good sense of humor, not a malicious bone in his body...and, as we would quickly find out, highly non-neurotypical. While I never heard the full list, I know he was taking meds for ADHD, bipolar disorder, and anxiety.

He came in and lost a lot, as most newbies do. But he wanted to learn, and so we put in the effort to teach him. Of course, there's a lot more to Scrabble than just learning a bunch of words; you have to learn how to think about your plays, figure out what factors matter in which situations, and make inferences and logical leaps that aren't always obvious.

And though Jake's improvement was slow, he was trying.

Very, very trying.

*****

I've been told, by many people, that I'd make an excellent teacher. While I understand the sentiment (and appreciate the compliment), I disagree, for two reasons.

One, while I could probably convey the material well, the crowd-control aspects would drive me up the wall. (It's the same reason I don't want children.)

Two, if a student wasn't willing or able to grasp the material, I'd have a tough time keeping my patience.

The latter was the issue with Jake. We'd sit down at the board, and play the game with both racks turned around, so I could talk through what plays were worth making and why.

I could see the gears turning when I'd ask him to find the bingo in his rack. Of course, the word that took me two seconds to find might take him three minutes, if he could keep from getting so frustrated that he wouldn't find it at all.

"Just relax and focus," I'd say.

Of course, as I realize now, that's like asking an asthmatic person to breathe easy.

*****

As a whole, you'd be hard-pressed to find a group of people more sympathetic to neurodivergence than Scrabble players. As author Stefan Fatsis details in his book Word Freak, many top-level players live with autism and other mental disorders, which alternately help and hinder them in their quest to master the game. Most of us have at least some exposure to the extremes of the bell curve, and have figured out how to handle it, in ourselves and others.

And yet, the night Jake flipped a board over after a frustrating loss, we all just sat around and stared at each other in silence for a bit.

"So what do we do?" Chris, our director, had watched Jake pick up the tiles, pack up his board, and walk out toward the train station, muttering to himself the whole time.

"I mean, I don't want to be the one to tell him that he can't be here," I said. Chris and I have developed a sort of good-cop-bad-cop routine, with Chris taking on the paternal, sympathetic role while I reacted more like the frustrated older brother. (Which was about right, given all of our respective ages.) "Besides school and his lame food-service job, this is probably the only social interaction he gets."

"Maybe he just needs a break," David chipped in. "We all get frustrated from time to time, and maybe he should focus on his school for a semester."

"That's a possibility," Chris said. "But he does need to know that behavior like that isn't acceptable." We all nodded in agreement.

As it turned out, Jake stepped away of his own volition for a couple of months. When he came back, he was calmer, but no less frustrating to watch play. Which isn't to say he wasn't improving--he was. And, as I often have to remind myself, being a mediocre player at a Scrabble club still puts you ahead of 99% of the general population.

But when he'd spend several minutes off of his clock only to make a seven-point play that accomplished nothing, or try a ridiculous phony, or make the only play that could possibly lose him the game, I could only shake my head sadly.

"It's like watching a blind man chase rainbows," I said to Chris once. Somehow, I didn't have to explain what I meant.

LJ Idol: Three Strikes

FINE. Let's see if I still remember how this thing works.

https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1171952.html

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 11B: "If The Creek Don't Rise"

River of Life

Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!

What happens when those God sent to build bridges build a dam instead?

Many waters cannot quench love; neither can the floods drown it.

What does love do when the water it needs to survive is taken away?

For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground.

Sometimes the heat turns the waters into mist. What then?

All the rivers flow into the sea, yet the sea is not full.

But the sea cannot nourish us, and the rivers run dry.

He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul.

What do I do when the creek dries up?

*****

(Bible references, in order: Amos 5:24, Song of Songs 8:7, Isaiah 44:3, Ecclesiastes 1:7, Psalm 23:2.)

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 11: "Wild Goose Chase"

Birds Are Jerks

Back in 2010, a group of video-game speed-runners (players who specialize in completing the games as quickly as possible) gathered in someone's basement to run a bunch of games and raise some money for charity. The event, Classic Games Done Quick, had its share of technical issues, but eventually raised about $11,000.

At the time, this was seen as a major accomplishment--getting people to watch video games on Twitch was one thing, but getting people to donate for the right to name characters, determine the routes the players took, and even get extra games played was quite another.

Then they did it again, but bigger.

And then again. And again.

Ten years later, the latest event, which took place in Orlando last week, raised over three million dollars for the Prevent Cancer Foundation. All told, GDQ events have now raised over $25 million for various charities.

One wrinkle this time around was that a special call was put out for speedruns of recently-released games, to break up the Sonic-Mario-Metroid monotony that can occasionally take over. Of course, anyone who has followed the video game community over the past year knew what that meant:

Someone was going to speedrun Untitled Goose Game.

Yes, the game that has taken over the imaginations of Switch users the world over, and proved once and for all that birds are jerks (which is a meme not only on random corners of the internet, but also within the speedrun community--in any RPG, birds prove to be the most annoying enemies to fight, because who sets up their party to defend against wind attacks?), would be showcased on video-gaming's greatest stage.

The runs themselves are a masterpiece; the crowd's reactions (particularly to crossing the $2-million-donated barrier) are a honking delight.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ExTp5-WgC8

While it may seem odd that over 150,000 people spent their Saturday evening watching someone pilot a pixelated goose around an oddly charming town, let alone helped raise money while doing so, the glitches showcased by the runners serve as a reminder of the same thing that the GDQ braintrust has always known:

Never tell speedrunners that something is impossible.

Walls? Just another thing to work around, or more likely, work through.

A character who will always talk to you, no matter what? We can avoid that.

The weapon you need isn't accessible until after you need it? Says you.

There's no way to recreate the magic (and charity impact) of the telethon in the modern age? Just watch.

If you can dream it, you can do it. Even if it involves becoming a bird, and being a bit of a jerk.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 10: Open Topic

"Numbers Game"

There is a phenomenon known to the French as l'esprit de l'escalier, literally translated as "the spirit of the staircase." It refers to that feeling of coming up with the perfect thing to say--a line of argument in a debate, the perfect zinger, the pickup line that might have actually worked--as one is descending the staircase to leave.

Of course, this need not be so immediate. I was having a conversation with my aunt Lynn* at Christmas, and only yesterday did I figure out how to encapsulate my point in a single sentence.

Lynn was talking about a coincidence she had recently experienced, and was asking me, the math major, what the odds were of it happening. "It has to be a sign of something." Now, I fully acknowledge that God moves in mysterious ways. But to speak through the cards in a board game? That seemed, well, unlikely to me.

We went back and forth on this, me pointing out that similar odd events pass by unnoticed, her insisting that something that unlikely could not happen by chance. This diverged into a discussion of the gambler's fallacy, which I explained as follows: "If a roulette wheel comes up red twelve spins out of fifteen, there will be some people who will insist that you have to bet on red, because 'red is hot.' Others will insist you need to bet on black, because 'black is due.' They can't both be right, and indeed, neither is. The next spin is always fifty-fifty."

We never did establish the actual odds (mostly because there are so many factors involved that it's impossible to quantify them all), but I think I finally convinced her to use this coincidence as a tiebreaker in her decision-making, but nothing more.

Of course, now that l'esprit has kicked in, I know what I was supposed to say:

"Just because it's unlikely doesn't make it a miracle."

One-in-a-million chances do happen. One time out of a million. There's a similar paradox with, for example, the lottery. The odds of you winning the lottery are infinitely small. The odds of someone winning are, depending on the number of people who bought tickets, likely to nearly certain. It's all a matter of perspective.

Does this mean God can't act through probability? That everything is purely chance? Lynn would definitely disagree, but I'm not so sure. Our human tendency to look for patterns, even when we know there isn't one, may be too ingrained to overcome.

But I'm sure I'll come up with the answer someday.

I just need to walk down a few more staircases.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 9: "Blood Harmony"

"The Words Are Gonna Bleed From Me"

People create music for a wide variety of reasons. Some do it to express feelings that can't be expressed any other way. Others do so because they know they possess a talent for it, and want to share it with the world. Still others do it for the fame, the fortune, and the glory.

Regardless of the reasons, one goal remains the same: the level of ubiquity where everyone recognizes the song after just a few notes. For some songs, this comes as a result of being played (some would say overplayed) everywhere; around this time of year, people make a game of going as long as they can without hearing "All I Want for Christmas Is You" or "Last Christmas." (Spoiler alert: it's impossible to make it to Christmas Day.)

For other songs, however, the notes themselves provide the ubiquity. Listen to the crowd in the broadcast of any European football (yes, I mean soccer for you Americans) match, and at some point, they will inevitably break into a chant--sometimes praising their own players, frequently deriding the opponents, and occasionally just singing the same seven-note melody, over and over:

Dah, dah-DAH-dah-dah-DAH, dah...

You could hear it without even clicking the link, couldn't you? All I had to do was type "sev" into Youtube's search bar to get there.

Brother/sister duo Jack and Meg White combined a slightly syncopated guitar riff, a simple drum line, and lyrics about...uh, I'm not entirely sure what they're about other than various kinds of fighting...to create the perfect background music to sporting events the world over. It's easily sung by even the most tone-deaf, inebriated fan; seven syllables is long enough to get your point across without getting lost; and it moves fast enough to get you jumping up and down in front of your seat.

(Curiously, this phenomenon of singing at sporting events is mostly a rest-of-the-world thing. I love American sports fans, but it's all you can do to get them to do "J-E-T-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!" properly, and you need to use the Jumbotron to prompt them. European/rest-of-the-world fans do all these chants and songs without any prompting from the stadium itself. Which just goes to show how unfounded our claims of "best in the world" are.)

Supporters of football clubs like to give themselves nicknames: The Red Army, Orange Nation, The Blue Moon Club. (The focus on the team's colors drives home Jerry Seinfeld's point that, in essence, we're rooting for laundry.) But for a few seconds every match, every one of these groups shares the same banner:

The Seven Nation Army.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 8: "My True North"

Poker Faces

Aside from my well-documented love for Scrabble, I've also dabbled in a wide variety of other games. I have a small Magic: the Gathering card collection, as well as a shelf in my closet full of board games. I've played a little bit of competitive bridge and chess, though neither at anywhere near the level I've achieved in Scrabble.

In addition, when my finances allow for it, I'll occasionally wander down to the nearest cardroom (there are a few in the area) and play some good old-fashioned poker.

Of course, "old-fashioned" probably doesn't mean what you think it does. The Cincinnati Kid wouldn't know quite what to make of modern-day no-limit Texas Holdem, though he'd probably figure out how to take everyone's money really quickly anyway.

While it's certainly just fine to just work your way through the game on instinct alone, there is (as you'd expect with any competitive endeavor with money involved) an entire industry dedicated to helping you improve your game. Any reputable bookstore will have a shelf dedicated to poker (which I've certainly browsed), and online courses offer to teach you "game-theory-optimal" play (which is a rabbit hole I'm not prepared to go down).

But none of that, at least to me, is the key to the game. The key comes in the critical moments, where your opponent has shoved all their chips in the middle and is waiting for you to do the same. You have a decent hand, but they are claiming to have a monster. And either they do, or they don't.

My strategy for these moments is simple. I close my eyes for a few seconds, clear my head, then look at my opponent. And I ask myself the one question that would-be lie detectors the world over have asked themselves for ages: Are they comfortable?

If they are, they're not nervous about whether their bluff is going to work, and I fold. If they're not, they're clearly nervous, and I call.

It's proven to be a pretty profitable method, and serves as a reminder of what a wise man once said: "Poker isn't a card game you play with people. It's a people game you play with cards."

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 6: "Solvitur Ambulando"

Step By Step

During our training sessions at USPS, one of the leaders asked around the room: Why are you taking this job? Most people gave the stock answers (which mostly boiled down to, "I need a job!"), but I came up with a slightly different reason. "You're paying me to get in shape!"

Which, truth be told, I needed. Despite my best efforts, a year of unemployment had tacked on about 30-40 pounds that needed to go. As the instructor reminded us, we were going to get in shape, whether we wanted to or not.

I thought I understood. I had no idea.

*****

The first few weeks were, I was told, fairly easy--long, flat streets; clearly marked house numbers; only a few hours of walking a day. Soon, however, I proved that I could handle pretty much anything the supervisors threw at me, adapting quickly to new routes and being willing to pitch in wherever I was needed.

This, in retrospect, was a mistake.

Our office runs four ZIP codes--three in San Mateo, one in Foster City. I have distinct memories of delivering packages in all four zones in the same day, which entails far more driving around in those boxy mail trucks than can possibly be safe or sane. I also recall two supervisors arguing with each other (after I'd done a 6-hour route in five hours, mind you) about which of them would get to send me out for another two hours' worth of work.

I began to get the sense that I wasn't being given a permanent route, not because of bureaucratic nonsense, but because the supervisors prized my versatility above all else. But for all my angst about being bounced around like a rubber ball, those pounds I signed up to lose did, in fact, disappear.

*****

My grandmother is the world's greatest shopper, and I will not hear any argument otherwise. On the one hand, this makes Christmastime a joy, as you know she will find something you'll love and not spend too much money doing it. On the other hand, this makes Christmastime a pain, because what do you get the woman who not only has everything, but got it all for 40% 0ff? (The answer is usually gift cards, so she can do more of what she loves.)

The Christmas after I joined USPS, Grandma got me a Fitbit, "so now you'll know just how much they're abusing you at work." Given that I was now going on nearly a year without so much as a sniff of a permanent offer, someone wondered aloud which would quit first--me or the Fitbit.

At the time, I'd have wagered on me.

*****

I walked in one Monday to the worst news possible. "Route 452," Jamie said. "You'll probably need to pitch in on 412 as well."

Now, in terms of pure physical exertion, there are more challenging and hilly routes than these two; Foster City is almost entirely flat. But neither route has any apartment buildings (which can take longer depending on mail load, but at least give you a bit of a break from walking), and 452 in particular has this complicated maze of townhouses where the front doors of the houses (i.e., where the parcels go) are far away from the mailboxes on the garage doors. Plus, it's about an hour too long--even the supervisors acknowledge this, but given how short-staffed we are, there's not much to be done about it.

I soldier on, taking on the two hours of long streets on 412 before moving to the start of 452. I push through the route, only getting myself turned around a couple of times, and race, race against the dying of the light. (The little headlamp I bought at REI pays for itself almost immediately.)

After scrambling to make it back to the office and off the clock before the union-maximum 12 hours is up, I finally flop into my car. I look down at the Fitbit on my wrist and see an incomprehensible number: 45,240.

Tapping through the buttons, I see that this comes out to a little over 20 miles. Frankly, that feels low. I fire up the car and, instead of turning left to head home, I turn right toward the nearest steakhouse. Because I've earned it. (And because, in all likelihood, I'll face the same challenge again tomorrow--only this time, with those stupid circular ads included.)

*****

The wristband on the Fitbit has been replaced twice now, but it's still ticking. And I'm still here, now on a permanent rotation of routes that covers five different carriers' days off.

Who quits first? At this point, my money's on the Fitbit.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 5: "My Enemies Are All Too Familiar"

The Grind

It's the summer of 1998, just before the start of my sophomore year. Both of my parents work, so most of my weekdays are spent at the Porter's, our friends from church. (Most of my Saturdays are spent with them at bowling league, and all of our Sundays as well. The seven of us--my parents, their parents, and the three of us boys--are kinda inseparable.)

On this day, Aaron (the older brother, who’s a year ahead of me) pulls me into his room and fires up his Playstation, which at the time was the hot new tech. I was always more of a Nintendo kid, so this was way cool to me.

"You ever played an RPG?"

"A what?"

"RPG. Role-playing game. You control a bunch of characters, and fight a bunch of...ya know what, it's too much to explain. Just jump in."

As the opening title sequence plays, he hands me the controller and quickly explains what the buttons do, then leaves me free to explore. "Call me if you get stuck."

*****

a few hours later...

Despite a few interruptions by Jason (a year younger than me, and way louder than Aaron), I'm making pretty good progress. The battle system makes sense, though the plot kinda doesn't.

Until I leave the first major city, Midgar, and find myself in the open world.

"Aaron!" I call out. A few seconds later, he shows up. "Now what?"

He peeks at the screen. "Oh cool, you escaped. Now comes the fun part."

"Where do I go?"

"Just run around this area for a while and level up your party. Try to get Cure2, if you can."

Though I only vaguely understood how leveling up characters and spells worked, I knew it was gonna take some time to do this. "Is there anything I need to worry about with the enemies around here?"

"Not really. Keep Lightning equipped--there's a couple of mechanicals running around. Try to heal during battles--it's more efficient. When you're ready, there's a town to the northeast. I'll walk you through that one."

"Got it. Thanks."

*****

an hour or so later...

"Okay, I'm tired of fighting these stupid wolves," I mutter to myself. Right at that moment, the doorbell rings--it's Mom, coming to pick me up.

"Aaron!" I call out, and he appears at the door. "How do I save again?"

*****

This would be the pattern for most of the rest of the summer. Stumbling through towns, accidentally wandering into sidequests, and spending hours running around the same forests, leveling up my characters. (Probably too much time, actually, but I didn't have particularly good battle strategy and was paranoid about being under-leveled for the boss fights.)

Which meant way too much time fighting the same stupid monsters, over and over again.

If we'd had smartphones in 1998, I probably could've gotten away with scrolling through Twitter with one hand while grinding levels with the other.

But if we'd had smartphones, I might have decided that whatever was on there was more interesting.

*****

several weeks later...

It's time for the final fight. "Alright, here we go. Any tips?"

"Nah, I'll let this one be a surprise." Aaron's been good about giving me hints without spoiling any major surprises. (Though that one at the end of disc one...oof.) But now, in typical fashion, he's leaving me on my own.

I make my way to the center of the arena, and a monster flies toward my party. "JENOVA?" I shout. "AGAIN?" I look over at Aaron, and he just smirks and nods.

"Fourth time's the charm, I guess. It'll be dead for good this time."

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 4: "Impossible"

"Angels and Devils"

I hadn't noticed him come in. He had this way of slipping into the bar when I wasn't looking. But when I saw him, I was alarmed.

He was sitting there, as slickly-dressed and pug-faced as ever, next to a stunning brunette in a red dress. She seemed totally entranced and intrigued by him, which meant his "charms" were working.

In any other circumstance, this would not be a cause for concern; people talk and flirt at singles bars all the time. That's what they're for. But this weasel was no ordinary circumstance.

The temptation to intervene was impossible to resist, but given that he had a good fifty pounds on me, it was also likely to lead to a nasty hospital bill. I needed another plan, and after a couple of minutes I came up with one.

I grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen out of my pocket, writing carefully so as not to tear the unpredictable fabric. After a few seconds, I folded it neatly and stuffed it in my pocket.

When he finally got up and wobbled his way over to the bathroom, I made my way over towards the bar, leaning in to order another drink. As I did so, I pulled out the napkin and slipped it onto the counter, right next to her hand. She looked at me, slightly puzzled, and picked it up, but didn't read it until I'd gotten my drink and gone back to my table.

She stared at the napkin for a few seconds, then looked over at me with deep blue eyes. I lifted my glass in a silent toast and took a drink. She smiled and responded in kind.

When the jerk returned to his seat, it was easy to see the change in the tenor of their conversation. A few minutes later, he grabbed his coat and left the bar, muttering to himself as he exited.

The woman got up and made her way to my table, as quickly as one can while wearing heels and carrying a margarita in a crowded bar. Sliding gently into the chair opposite mine, she dropped the napkin on the table, the words facing me:

The "gentleman" you are talking to is a known abuser of women.

"How do you know?" she asked, her eyes locking onto mine.

"One of the women he abused is a dear friend of mine. You can ask around among the regulars here, if you like."

She nodded solemnly. "No, I trust you." After a few seconds, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I felt a jolt run through me as she did so. "Thank you..."

"Dave."

"Sophie. Nice to meet you." She looked at my now-empty glass. "What are you drinking?"

*****

"Last call for alcohol!" Dustin's voice ringing out from behind the bar startled me; that meant we'd been talking for, what, four hours now? "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"

The DJ, on cue, spun up "Closing Time" by Semisonic. By now, Sophie and I were actually buzzed enough to enjoy singing along, even though it wasn't karaoke night. "I know who I want to take me home..."

Looking across the table at each other, we realized we meant it. Turns out, "home" for her was a few blocks of walking away. As we exited the bar, I offered to take her arm; she reached for my hand instead. Again, that jolt.

By the time we reached her place, our arms were draped around one another, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sophie fumbled in her purse for her keys, then turned to face me. "Penny for your thoughts?"

I resisted the temptation to blurt out the lewder things I'd been thinking, and instead took her hands in mine, pulling her into my personal space. "I've been dying to kiss you for the last three hours," I whispered. "May I?"

She craned her neck upward and closed the few remaining inches between us. "Thought you'd never ask."

After a fireworks display--sorry, a perfect first kiss--it was her asking. "Care to come in?"

Some temptations are impossible to resist. Thankfully, sometimes we aren't supposed to.

*****

Author's note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, etc., etc.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 2: "Living Rent-Free In Your Head"

No One Lost Ahead of You

This past December, I managed to finagle three days off of work. Now, that may not sound too impressive, but I work for USPS. Trust me, it's tougher than you might think.

The reason I needed the time off was to play in the California Open, the one multi-day Scrabble tournament held in San Francisco each year. Having not played any live games in four months due to being overworked, I wasn't sure what to expect in terms of my performance.

Certainly not going 15-1 over the first two days--running roughshod over the field, playing well and drawing better. By my ballpark math, I was about 90% to win the tournament, up three games on the field with four to play.

And then...I didn't win. Carl won his last four games, including beating me twice, while I lost all four games to finish second:

https://www.cross-tables.com/tourney.php?t=10523&div=1

As you may be able to infer, I have some thoughts about this.

*****

The title of this post is taken from an old Jerry Seinfeld routine:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xK9rbwM3omA

There's actually scientific backing for this: bronze medalists are typically happier than silver medalists at Olympic medal ceremonies.

Why does it matter? Why can't I be half as happy with second as I am with first?

Those of us who compete at the highest levels of anything--Scrabble, table tennis, sprinting--have invested a lot of time and effort into getting good at our chosen pursuit. We've spent countless hours studying and playing, reorganized our lives around it, forgone other opportunities in life to focus on finding that extra 2% edge that will matter when it counts.

Ultimately, what we seek in return is not money or prestige, but a narrative of validation. We want to be able to explain to our friends, who have stuck by us despite our blowing them off to go play in some one-day tournament, why it was worth it. "I put in the effort," we want to be able to say, "and in this moment, when everything was on the line, I found a play that few other people in the world could have found. And this is what it got me."

And when you say the word "this" in that last sentence, in order to justify it to most people, you'd better be holding up a trophy.

*****

At the awards ceremony, Chris, our director, graciously avoided saying anything about how my tournament ended as he brought me up to the stage. Once I was up there and shaking people's hands, however, he couldn't resist. "Try showing up for the final day next time."

And even though I knew it was a joke, that didn't make it funny at the time. My instinctive reaction was one of self-defense: "I showed up! The tiles didn't!"

Was that true? Or did I choke?

That was the question running through my mind as I drove home through the rain on Sunday evening. If the loss was merely down to the vagaries of variance, it would be highly annoying but something I could live with; the fact that the unwinnable games were the last four is just the randomness of sequencing.

But if the losses were down to my own play--if I could have won them and blew it--that would be another matter entirely. That would be something that would take a long time to live down--if I ever could.

Upon further review (and if you want to review for yourself, they're all posted here), the answer is...maybe I kinda choked a little? Some minor inaccuracies made it more difficult to win the first two games on Sunday, but the last two were basically unwinnable.

In short, I don't believe I played those last four games any *worse* than the previous sixteen. But I didn't exactly play *better* when it counted, either.

The insidious thing is, the whole process of making plays in a Scrabble game involves kind of a meta-analysis. Am I giving myself the best chance to win? Did I find all of the available options? Is this play right against this particular opponent?

And somewhere in that conversation, now and always: Are you sure you're not choking this game away?

This is different from (but akin to) what poker players call "tilt", where your anger at previous misplays causes you not to play your best. It can be overcome, but it takes work to silence that voice. At best, you can give it a firm response: This is the best play. If it doesn't work, that's on the tile bag. If I find out later that it wasn't the best play? Well, that's something I can work on for next time.

*****

I'm still not sure which was more insulting: people congratulating me on Saturday night and Sunday morning (and forcing me to remind them that the tournament was not yet over), or people congratulating me after losing.

"Second is still a great performance!"
"For how long you'd been out of the game, that's awesome!"

And to an extent, this is true: if you'd offered me 15-5 and second place on Friday morning, I'd probably have taken it. Until you told me how it would happen.

Because I don't get to play many tournaments these days, I don't get very many chances to win tournaments. And letting a 90% chance slip through your fingers--having one hand on the trophy and not taking it home--doesn't feel like something I can afford to have happen. The competition's getting younger, the word list is getting larger and more unwieldy, and those trophies are getting more and more elusive.

One could argue--and I don't think I'm being hyperbolic here--that I may never enter the final day of a tournament in that good a position to win again. And I didn't.

And that stings. But to me, that's a good thing. It means I still have the desire to improve, to keep studying and analyzing, to figure out the holes in my game and fix them, and to improve my focus to silence the negative voices in my head.

I've been asked by some of my friends: What keeps you doing this? Is it the pursuit of glory? The challenge of mastering a game with both skill and chance involved? The people you get to meet?

To an extent, it's all those things. But more than that, it's the thrill of competition, the emotional rushes--in both directions--caused by winning and losing.

The day winning stops feeling good is the day I consider quitting.

The day losing stops hurting is the day I do.

LJ Idol Homecoming, Week 1: "Resolution"

"Worth The Fight"

You say you just want the fighting to stop.
For everyone to come together, get along.
Why does it need to be so over-the-top?
Does it really matter who's right, who's wrong?

Yeah, it matters.
Because to tell those who have been oppressed,
whose concerns have never been addressed,
to stop fighting, leave their weapons at the door
is to tell them that those concerns
aren't worth fighting for.

If all you want is a resolution to the conflict,
you'll never allow for an evolution.
We can be better than this, rise above,
become a society that focuses on love,
but only if we first address
those who only use their power to oppress
and if we make sure that those with less
still have the means to achieve success.

If all you want is a resolution,
you'll never want to pay restitution.
For those society has broken
just because they don't fit the mold,
instead of breaking the mold itself,
have a right to be repaid.
And even though you or I may not
have been the ones who did the deed,
we inherited the proceeds
and are responsible for the repayment.

If all you want is a resolution,
you'll never look forward to revolution.
The absence of conflict has no value.
People's lives do.
And yes, there will be those who die
in the struggle.
Better there than in an armchair.
At least those on the front lines
are willing to put their lives on the line
to show they care.

We can't all just get along.
Not when some of "we" think that others
aren't part of "we".
Not when money talks louder than those
who don't have a dime.
Not when the weight of this world falls squarely
on those too weak to bear it.

Don't say it's not worth fighting over.
You know which side you're on--
you know your side is right.
So join the fight, even though it's hard.
Grab your sword.
En garde.

One last (homecoming) dance...

Sure, why not. Let's see if I still remember how to write.

https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1060711.html

LJ Idol Season 10, Second Chance Round 3: "Getting to Carnegie Hall"

The Grind

The San Francisco Scrabble Club has had some interesting homes over the years. When I first attended, it was based in a Carl's Jr. near the Embarcadero, a location frequented by transients and generally not conducive to focus and concentration. My clearest memory of playing there was a game against Chris, our director. We're sitting there, trying to find a way to win the game, when the plate-glass window separating us from the street simply shatters. Nobody's quite sure, to this day, exactly what happened--a rock? a bullet?--but fortunately, nobody was sitting right next to the window (we were about ten feet away).

"What the hell?' Chris shouted. "Everyone okay?" People are looking around, checking themselves and each other. Nobody says anything.

"Alright, now what the hell was I going to play?"

*****

Fifty sets of seven or eight tiles, each including a blank, each containing between one and five words. You have nine minutes. Go.

That's the premise behind the blank-bingos quiz at aerolith.org, one of the most popular Scrabble study sites. They have other quizzes too--words of any length from 2 to 15, plus the ability to design your own lists to study from. You can set the timers, save your progress, and speed through as many words as you can in whatever time you have.

The daily blank-bingos quiz, though, is my favorite, because it forces your brain to bend in ways that actually resemble a real game. Okay, you have a promising-looking seven letter rack; what tiles does it bingo through, and are they available. Six middling tiles and a blank; you know there's something there, you've just got to find it.

Jumping between racks, trying to find the words you know are there, under time pressure...it's the best practice I know.

*****

Eventually, the club moved to the basement of the YMCA downtown, thanks to one of our players who had a membership and could reserve us the room. The space was also used by one of the local educational organizations for disadvantaged kids, and they had various motivational slogans on the walls. One of them, taken completely out of context, became our unofficial club motto (right next to "whenever you find a bad play, look for a worse one"): "If you're not doing your best, then what are you doing?"

When the YMCA decided to start charging us, we migrated across the street to a business center that had an atrium in their food court. Most of the restaurants closed down after lunch (this being the business district), but the atrium was open until midnight. Unfortunately, the cleaning crew started work on keeping the floor spotless around 6pm, right as we started playing. Needless to say, they weren't exactly enthusiastic about having us around. (I never thought I would use the phrase "passive-aggressive floor buffering", but that's exactly what we were victimized by.)

The one redeeming feature of the space, aside from being free, was the large water-column fountain in the middle of the atrium. Even though it was surrounded by a ring of planters, we would still get someone, about once a month, looking down at their cell phone and walking straight into the fountain, usually followed by a string of curse words from them and stifled laughter from us.

Then we'd go back to our games.

*****

The theory behind cardboxing is simple: you put the things you want to study on flashcards, then quiz yourself on them. Each question you get right moves forward one box, from 0 to 1, 1 to 2, etc. The questions in higher-numbered boxes are studied less frequently; every three days in box 1, once a week in box 2, and so on. If you miss a question, it goes back to box 0 and you try again tomorrow.

Managing something like this in paper is incredibly cumbersome. Fortunately for us Scrabble players, Zyzzyva makes it easy. Even if you miss a day, the program will catch you up, letting you study as frequently as you like, learning the words by practicing the process of unscrambling them, which is just as important as learning the words themselves.

I first started using the program seriously in about 2008, when a couple of young high-schoolers came into the club and started zooming right past everybody. I'd gotten by, to that point, on guts, guile, and a few selected word lists. But to keep up with these young punks, I knew I'd have to actually learn some words.

And eventually, all of them.

*****

We now play at a Whole Foods Market near the Castro, making us the most hipster Scrabble club in the country. Occasionally we'll get passersby who stop and look at our boards, their eyes goggling at the unusual words splayed across the table. "How did you guys get so good?"

I give the same answer every time. "Same way you get to Carnegie Hall. Practice, practice, practice."

LJ Idol Season 10, Second Chance Round 2: "Front Porch"

Thrown for a Loop

"Alright guys, heads up." Roberta's voice snaps a couple of heads back to attention. "Let's say you get to a house, and can't find the mailbox. What do you do?

Nobody answers. Some, I'm sure, aren't awake enough to hear the question. I catch Sam's eye across the room, and we both know not to answer--we've been bailing everyone else out a lot already.

"Cmon guys, this is gonna happen to you out there. What do you do? Leave the mail on the doorstep?" Half the class shrugs, figuring that must be the answer. Of course, the fact that we've been here since 7am isn't helping the apathy in the room.

"Knock?" Wow, Charlie finally spoke up. I wasn't sure he was even here.

"You can. But what if nobody's home?" More silence.

Finally, Sam's had enough of waiting. "Mark it up and bring it back."

Roberta nods. "Yep. Mark it NMR, 'no mail receptacle' and bring it back. It's not worth the time to spend five minutes searching for it. The regular carrier will know and will take care of it tomorrow."

We finally move on.

*****

It's been this kind of grind for three days now. Nothing about the phrase "City Carrier Academy" inspires excitement, and so far it's lived down to the hype.

At least, the classroom part has. The party where we put mail into the filing case has at least gotten us moving and thinking, and even competing with each other. (Spoiler alert: the guy whose last job involved lots of filing and working with numbers--i.e., yours truly--is wrecking the curve.)

One more day of this, and we finally get to do on-the-job training. I was supposed to have another lady with me in the same office, but she quit yesterday.

The one thing I'm learning from the academy is that it's just like the rest of this job: unglamorous, repetitive, and ultimately necessary. But at least it's work.

I'm blessed.

LJ Idol Season 10, Second Chance Round 1: "Not Throwing Away My Shot"

"Snap Judgment"

"Time!" the facilitator called. "Gentlemen, stand up and move to the next table. Everyone, fill out your cards."

Josh smiled, shook Emily's hand, and marked down another "no" on the response card with a small sigh. Why had he let Steve talk him into this speed-dating thing? This was the exact opposite of his style--he preferred to take the time to really get to know a woman, study them, and fit them into the frame of his life. Five minutes wasn't nearly enough time for that.

"Alright, gentlemen, take your seats. Go!" A bell rang, but Josh barely heard it. Sitting across from him was...a vision. Perfectly curled red hair, mischevious green eyes, lips curled into a beaming smile. She was saying something, but he couldn't make it out. Still, he knew he needed to play it off. After all, as the old saying goes, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

"I'm Josh. Couldn't hear you--what did you say your name was?"

"Helen. Lovely to meet you."

"Likewise."

*****

"So you're a photographer? Have I seen your work anywhere?" Helen was leaning forward, listening intently as she had been the entire time--all three minutes of it, anyway.

"Not unless you're into reading obscure collegiate art journals. But I'm working on finding my audience." Josh knew he needed to stop talking about himself, though--while Helen had charmed him instantly, it was no good unless there was some substance there. "But enough about me. What do you do?"

The next two minutes were a runaway train of words, excitement, and hand gestures. Apparently all it took for her to loosen up was for someone to ask. Normally this would have turned Josh off, but something about her--check that, everything about her--was different. He was taking mental notes, trying to keep up, when--

"Time!"

Josh stood, took Helen's extended hand, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the back of it. "Lovely talking to you."

Helen blushed slightly, but kept her gaze focused on him. "See you soon."

As he walked to the next table, Josh marked "yes" on his response card next to Helen's name. Then, without even thinking about it, he marked "no" next to the names he hadn't even met yet.

*****

Once the group of teenagers had walked off the green, Josh dropped his orange golf ball on the mat. "Alright, hole number two." Helen watched bemusedly as he took his time settling into his stance, then swung the putter back and through.

The ball traveled down the blue-carpeted fairway, following the slope from left to right. It snuck around the triangular block on the right side, skipped onto the green, and dropped into the hole with a loud "ping".

"YEAH!" Josh screamed, giving his best Tiger Woods fist pump as he marched down to retrieve his ball from the cup. Helen greeted this display with polite applause. "Competitive much?"

"Oh, always. What's the point of playing if you're not trying to win?"

Helen shrugged, then set her bright yellow ball down. Josh quickly pulled out his phone and set video rolling. Helen looked up just as she was about to swing. "No photographs, please!"

Josh smiled. "If there's one person you DON'T say that to..."

"Yeah, whatever." Concentrating on the task at hand, Helen took her swing, then tracked the ball as it followed the exact path Josh's ball had, right into the center of the cup. Throwing her arms into the air with a scream, Helen raced down to join Josh. "Game on!"

*****

Josh parked his car outside of Helen's apartment building, then raced around to open the door for her. "So well-trained," Helen remarked as she exited.

"Hey, some of us still believe in the good parts of chivalry," Josh replied, offering his arm to her. "Shall we?"

Helen took his arm, and they started walking toward the gate. Josh couldn't remember the last time he'd even had a second date, let alone one that had gone so well--at least, up until now. As Josh knew from bitter experience, the last thirty seconds could change everything.

Helen stopped at the gate and turned to face him. "Thank you for another wonderful evening," she whispered, opening her arms for a hug. Josh accepted, and they stood there for several seconds, wordlessly embracing. Josh felt Helen's hands rest on the back of his neck, and she pulled back slightly but didn't let go.

Looking into her eyes, Josh wondered what she was thinking. Was this the moment? He watched her eyes peek down at his lips, then back up to meet his. Well, what's the worst that could happen? Josh thought, before recognizing that thought for what it was and replacing it with a different one. If you kiss her, you might regret it. If you don't, you definitely will.

Gently reaching his hand up to caress her cheek, he took one quick peek down to see Helen licking her lips. Moving closer to her and bringing his gaze back up to her eyes, he whispered "May I?"

Helen smiled that brilliant smile that had caught his attention two weekends earlier and pulled him closer. "Thought you'd never ask."

*****

The morning sun peeked through the curtains, waking Josh as it did most mornings. This morning, however, was very different.

"Hello, sleepyhead," came Helen's voice from beside him. Josh peeked down at her smiling face and blinked a couple of times, just to be sure.

"Good morning, angel." Helen smiled and leaned up to kiss him.

So much had happened in the past month. Six dates, too many kisses to count, and now, for the first time, waking up in each other's arms. Josh made a note to thank Steve the next time he saw him.

"Sleep well?" Helen's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Next to you, who wouldn't?" Josh felt Helen blush as she snuggled closer beside him. They lay in silence for a few minutes, letting the sun warm them through the covers. Then Helen shifted and sat up slightly.

"Who's that?" she whispered, pointing toward Josh's bedstand. Josh turned his head--and realized what was going on. The picture sitting in the frame was of a blonde woman, smiling and beautiful. Josie. "An ex-girlfriend."

"Did you break her heart, or did she break yours?" Helen sat up and pulled the sheets around her protectively.

"She...tried to break mine. I'm pretty resilient, though." Josh thought back to the way he had found out she was cheating on him. He couldn't ever picture Helen doing so, but he'd been wrong before. Clearly.

"So why's her picture still there?"

Good question. Josh looked at the photograph again, the way the sunlight sparkled in her eyes, the framing of her face, the balance of colors and shadows. "Because it's the best portrait I've ever taken, from a technical perspective."

Helen scrunched up her face, pondering this. "Hmm." Looking over at her, Josh knew this was an important moment, and knew exactly what he had to do. He'd been planning the surprise for her birthday next week, but plans sometimes need to change.

"You know what, you're right. This picture belongs in my gallery." Standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself, he grabbed the picture of Josie and walked it across the hall to his work room. He returned a second later, carrying a different frame. "This one, however, belongs in my heart."

Helen gasped as he turned the picture around. It was the one he'd asked a stranger to take of them after the opera last week. The two of them made a perfect couple, dressed to the nines and beaming like the happiest people in the world.

"Wow..."

"That picture was my technical masterpiece," Josh whispered. "But this...this is the most beautiful picture ever."

Helen leaned back on the bed, tossed away the sheets, and beckoned to him. "Come over here and say that..."

LJI Second Chance

Jumping back in.

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 9: "Trolley Problem"

The classic trolley problem, in ethics, asks whether an action that causes harm is preferable to an inaction that causes more harm. While useful as a thought experiment, I have issues with it; namely, that the problem has almost no relevance to real life--or even to the artificial life we sometimes construct for ourselves.

I can demonstrate my point with a series of follow-up questions: What if you didn't know how many people were on the second track--or even if there were any at all? What if the switch isn't 100% guaranteed to actually affect the path of the trolley? What if there's a chance that the switch might cause the trolley to derail? What if the passengers on the trolley are injured by the sudden switch? What if someone else switches the tracks back after you've left?

Confused yet? Not sure what to do? Welcome to the life of a gamesman.

Most good board and card games (poker being the most popular example, and Scrabble being the one I am most familiar with) blend chance and skill in various ways. The element of chance prevents knowing for certain, in the vast majority of situations, what the correct decision actually is. One can make estimates as to the probability of events occuring, and with skill, those estimates become more and more accurate. However, humans can't generally come up with a precise solution in the time allotted to them, and even if they could, the random factor sometimes means that the correct decision will have a negative outcome. And as Sartre famously noted about soccer, "everything is complicated by the presence of an opponent."

The key to success in these endeavors is to recognize that, in a weird way, the results don't really matter. We, as humans, are trained to look for patterns, and if a decision leads to a positive outcome, we are tempted to make that decision again even if the outcome was merely a result of chance. Conversely, if the right move leads to a bad outcome, we shy away from it when the situation recurs because our brains remember getting burned the last time. I often tell people I'm teaching Scrabble, "Just because it didn't work doesn't make it the wrong play, and just because it did work doesn't make it the right play."

Making the transition from being results-oriented to process-oriented (that is, focusing on how to make the decision then letting the chips fall where they may) is not easy. I still struggle with it, especially when I know that I'm making the right decisions and going through a long stretch where the results fall against me. However, it often turns out that my decisions were less right than I'd realized, and there's still much to be learned.

Fortunately, as far as I'm aware, nobody's been tied to a railroad track because of a game of Scrabble.

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 8: "No Comment"

"Silence is Golden"

"C'mon man! Let's go!" TJ turned to look at Marcus as they walked back to the huddle. "We still got this!"

Of course, Marcus was always loud on the court. The difference was, right now he had to be. A twelve-point lead had dwindled to two in the last two minutes of game time, and Stewart Pavilion was rocking. Literally--as TJ looked up to the rafters, he could swear he saw the banners shaking as though a breeze had blown through.

To be fair, it was always tough to travel into their rivals' building and come away with a win. State's fans had a reputation for being loud, as well as for coming up with creative ways to get under their opponents' skins. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the annual game against Western, with whom they'd been vying for conference supremacy as long as TJ could remember.

He'd heard them all game. Taunting him with chants of "OH-ver-RA-ted" after every missed shot. Booing Jimmy, who had transferred from State last year, every time he touched the ball. Getting louder than he thought possible on every free throw.

One guy, in particular, seemed to have TJ in his crosshairs. He was standing behind their bench, hurling insults at him, coming up with combinations of curse words he didn't know were possible. Even now, as Coach diagrammed a play on his whiteboard, the guy in the yellow hoodie was making very unkind insinuations about his mother.

"Simmons!" TJ snapped his head up to look at Coach. "You got this, right? Don't wait for the shot clock to run down on us--get the ball moving." TJ nodded. "Alright, guys, we've got one timeout left and so do they. No fouls to give. Let's execute."

The huddle broke, and TJ jogged over to the far baseline. As he took his position, Jimmy walked by with a grin on his face. "Let's shut these mofos up."

On the referee's whistle, TJ sprinted toward the middle of the court, using Marcus' screen to free himself enough to receive the ball. The clock began to tick down from 40 seconds, ten seconds ahead of the shot clock. TJ dribbled across the half-court line and took a peek at the clock. When it reached 15 seconds, he took a quick jab-step to his right, then passed it across to Adams on the sideline.

The whirlwind of motion began. TJ ducked around Evans' screen, then raced to the far corner to receive the pass back from Adams. Knowing that the defense had rotated toward him, he faked the shot and passed instead to a cutting Evans, who rolled toward the basket before passing to Jimmy in the opposite corner.

As Jimmy prepared to launch the three-pointer, the crowd screamed in unison. TJ read the trajectory of the shot. That's too long. Working his way around his defender, he positioned himself on the side of the lane, away from the other players who were apparently assuming the shot would be short.

Thirty-five minutes of hard running had not sapped TJ's ability to leap, and he soared above his man to grab the rebound. Spinning away from the defenders, he dribbled back out toward mid-court, taking another peek at the clock. Ten, nine... He spun around and held the ball tight, waiting for someone from State to come over and foul him. When they finally did, the clock read 6.2.

The crowd seemed to exhale a bit as TJ tossed the ball back to the referee and strode confidently to the free throw line. Two makes here would push the lead to four, making it a two-possession game and essentially icing it. As the crowd rallied to produce even more noise and distraction, TJ smiled to himself. Let's shut these mofos up.

With the same practiced form that had given him an 85% free-throw percentage on the season, he calmly swished the first shot. Marcus and Jimmy leaned over from their stances on either side of the lane to give him a quick hi-five. The referee bounced the ball back to him, and the noise swelled even more. TJ dribbled twice, spun the ball, bent his knees, and sent the ball skyward. Swish.

The only sounds at that moment were the referee's whistle as he signaled Western's final timeout, the cheers of the few dozen Western fans in the far corner of the arena, and "Yeah, baby!" from Marcus as he jogged back toward the bench. TJ strode purposefully in the same direction. As he did so, he locked eyes with the guy in the yellow hoodie, who was stuck in the classic pose: hands on top of his head, eyes wide, mouth agape, the universal expression that said "this can't be happening" written all over him.

"Nothing to say now, huh, buddy?"

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 6: "Heel Turn"

Let's talk about the election.

According to exit polls, eighty percent of white evangelical/born-again Christians voted for Donald Trump.

In theory, this is my demographic group...and I have no clue how this happened.

How any person of faith could look at a man who bragged about sexually assaulting women, spoke against every race except whites, and supported policies that would threatened the whole of humanity's existence--and see him as the candidate that they, as Christians, ought to vote for is beyond my comprehension.

Nothing he has done or said, either during the campaign or after (or, to be quite frank, beforehand), convinces me that Trump is a man of faith. "By your fruits ye shall know them," Jesus said (Matthew 7:16), and given the litany of shady business practices and hurtful words in his past, Trump's fruits are rotten.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying that everyone who voted for Trump is a racist, misogynist xenophobe. Many of these voters believed that they were being true to their faith. I know some of these voters personally, and I can tell you that there is genuine love in their hearts--for their families, their friends, and their God.

But the fact that none of what Trump has said or done (and continues to say or do) was a deal breaker for them in their support of Trump is something I will not soon forget. The fact that they have turned their backs on many of the people God has called us to love will be very difficult for me to forgive.

Paul wrote to the Romans, "I am not ashamed of the Gospel" (Romans 1:16). Neither am I. But I am ashamed for, and by, those with whom I share the name of Christ...and apparently, share little else.

Maybe I'm wrong. Actually, I pray that I am. Maybe this has all been a massive troll job, an act, and maybe Trump will flip the script on those who supported him and prove to be a capable, competent president. But I'm not optimistic.

In the meantime, I'll continue to fight for the ideals that Jesus really espoused:
"Let the little children come unto me, and do not hinder them" (Matthew 19:14)
"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven" (Luke 18:25)
"Whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me" (Matthew 25:40)

That's the Gospel I want to spread.

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 5: "Fear is the Heart of Love"

For Love of the Game

It's go time.

House lights down,
batter up,
take your marks,
start the clock.

Breathe.

Wait.
Where are the butterflies?
Where are the nerves?
Why aren't I scared?

Action!
Play ball!
GO!
Shuffle up and deal!

Okay. Let's play.

Something's not right.
Where did my heart go?
The motions fit.
The emotions don't.

Applause.
Base hit, RBI.
One lap down.
Stacking chips.

So far, so good.

So why doesn't it feel good?
I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.
Where's the rush?
What else can I do?

Murmurs in the crowd.
Strike three, again.
Losing the leaders.
Down to the felt.

No. Not like this.

Fight like hell.
Give everything.
You can't let yourself lose.
Because then what are you?

A silent crowd.
The other team celebrates.
Miles from the podium.
Walking away empty-handed.

Ouch.

Okay. That's better.
At least I feel.
I wouldn't fight to win
if I didn't fear loss.

The day winning stops feeling good
is the day I consider quitting.
The day losing stops hurting
is the day I do.

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 3: "Brushback Pitch"

Game Theory

Several years ago, during a National Scrabble Championship, I became a minor celebrity.

Not for my performance in the tournament, mind you--though I rallied from a 1-5 start to play my way into contention, a six-game losing streak ended that dream. No, I became a minor celebrity within the Scrabble community because of an obscure hole in the Official Tournament Rules. Quoting what is now section V.B.:

The game may also end [...] after a sixth consecutive zero-scoring play from passes, exchanges, challenges, or illegal plays.

This rule is designed to provide a means to end the game when neither player is capable of placing tiles on the board. But nothing in the rule says that it has to be at the end of the game. I knew this rule, my opponent momentarily forgot, and I won a prize for the lowest winning score of the tournament: 28-11.

Word spread rapidly, and I was being asked to retell the tale of this game several times an hour for the next day or two. In person, everyone seemed impressed with my knowledge of the rules, and with my willingness to take the sure win rather than try to play for a larger victory. (To which I responded: I was 4-7 at the time. A win is a win.)

When the discussion migrated to our online email forum, however, the reaction was quite different. You shouldn't be proud of that! It's unethical to win games that way! It goes against the spirit of the game! Prominent members of the community were lined up against me, though thankfully, they were outnumbered and eventually shouted down.

It got me thinking, however, about the phrase "spirit of the game". It's invoked anytime someone takes an action that treads the line between legality and ethics in a game or sport. How ruthless do we want our competitors to be? We want them to play hard, sure, but at what cost?

Baseball has tried to legislate throwing pitches at hitters out of the game, for obvious safety reasons. Hitting someone with a baseball, particularly in the head, can alter someone's life. Pitchers remind us (and quite rightly) that the inside pitch is also part of the game, and that if a hitter needs to be backed off the plate a bit in order to set up a future pitch, that's within the rules. Where it gets messy is when you throw inside just because someone celebrated a little too loudly when they hit that home run last time up.

It's the same in other sports; football wants to take head-hunting out of the game and make it safer, but how much can you really expect someone to run at full speed and hit specifically the chest and not the head? Soccer wants to reduce players diving to earn fouls against the opponent, but how do you judge precisely what is and isn't a foul when both players are working to deceive?

I struggle with this at times as well. In non-competitive environments, such as a casual board-game day, I'll work with others to understand the rules, and help correct people if they get things wrong. But there's still that competitive edge to me that says, "If I'm playing this game, I may as well try to win it." And when there's actually stakes involved? I'm going all-out.

But what does that mean, exactly? I'm not doing literally everything in my power to try to win; for one thing, I'm absolutely not going to cheat. (Not that I'd have the physical dexterity or poker face to pull it off anyway, even if I wanted to. Which I don't.) I'll play by the rules, and use them to my advantage where I can.

Does that mean trying to be a lawyer, nitpicking everything my opponent does to try and find somewhere they might have messed up? Not to me. Some might say, however, that I'm giving up chances to win by doing so...and while they may be right, I find it more productive to focus on my own play than on my opponent's. But to what extent? Where's the line between cutthroat, and ruthless, and (as someone who played with me once put it) vindictive?

That last word was in the context of a multi-player game where the move that gave me the best chance also specifically hurt another player's opportunities. The player in question accused me of targeting them, making it personal. Which it wasn't--I was simply being careful about protecting my own interests; the opponent just happened to be collateral damage. Unfortunately, they didn't see it that way.

To sum up: In my mind, the "spirit of the game" consists of following two simple creeds:
1. Play by the rules of the game.
2. Play to win the game.

That's it. Real simple. As a T-shirt I once bought (at a board game convention, ironically enough) put it: It's not whether you win or lose. It's whether I win or lose.

LJ Idol Season 10, Week 2: "That One Friend"

Lean On Me

(These stories are true, as far as I can remember. Names have been changed.)

I shift uncomfortably in Maria's chair as she talks on the phone. "No, it was good...They screamed, they hugged me...yeah. Alright, gotta go. Love you!" Maria hangs up on her mother.

"What were people screaming and hugging you about?"

"Oh, right, I didn't tell you." She extends her left hand, which bears a ring that wasn't there last time I saw her.

I scream and hug her. "Why didn't you say anything on Sunday?" I ask. After all, she'd been sitting there talking to me as I was playing on the piano in the dorm lobby.

"You were having a rough day, what with how the Scrabble tournament went. I didn't want to act all happy in the face of that."

I smile a little bit. "On the contrary...that would've been exactly the pickup I needed."

She smiles and gives me another hug. "I'll remember that for next time."

*****

I knock on Diana's door, not knowing where else to go. She opens it up. "Hey, what's going on?"

I walk past her and plop down on the couch. Diana turns and closes the door. "Okay, perhaps 'what's wrong?' is a better question."

"I didn't get the part." I'd made it to the final round of auditions, I thought I'd nailed it, and it just wasn't enough.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, sitting next to me. The photo album on her computer shows pictures of her husband, Sean, from his deployment. "Wanna look at some of our vacation photos?"

"No..."

"I've got some leftover cupcakes. Want one?"

"No..." I lean back on the couch, arms splayed out to my sides, doing my best to look like someone who desperately needs a hug. Which is an accurate representation.

Fortunately, she takes the hint and nestles herself in my arms. "You'll be okay. Life goes on." She's right, of course. It's already improving.

*****

"This would be so much easier if I just worked for you," I sigh. Laura and I have been collaborating on this project for weeks now, but I'm starting to get heat from my actual boss that the other work isn't getting done.

"Believe me, if I could make that happen, I would." Laura collects my papers into the manila folder and hands it back to me. "Though you'd have to be even more careful with what you say than you already are."

I think back over the last couple of months, and the things she's chastised me for; pointing out that her shirt was "the color of a rose," noticing a little bit too readily the changes in her hair, and a couple of other idle comments. All intended innocently--she is spoken for, after all--but still unprofessional.

"Yeah, that's true." Working for you would mean one less person to flirt with, I think but don't say, lest I get chastised again.

Laura reaches into her purse and pulls out a $10 bill. "We're gonna be a couple hours more, I think. Care to go get me a cheeseburger?"

*****

"So I was talking with my parents last night," I say to Sue. "Telling them about the car problems. They'll take care of paying for it, but it's still annoying."

Sue keeps driving her minivan down the snow-plowed roads. "Did you let them know one of your coworkers had essentially adopted you for the week?"

"Yeah, I mentioned you. Of course, the first question Mom asked was, 'Is she single?'"

"Oh god..." Sue breaks out laughing. Truth is, her marriage has fallen apart to the point that she might as well be, but still, she technically isn't.

"Which, even if you were...you're almost old enough to be my mom, and...we're just in very different places, wanting very different things. Plus, I'm not sure I'm ready for an actual relationship."

"Age is just a number," Sue replies, which is exactly what I'd expect her to say. "As for being ready...you are. You just haven't found her yet."

We pull up to my apartment and waddle out of the van, bundled up as we are against the cold. "Given that, this is gonna be a slightly awkward question, but..."

"You need a hug." I nod, and she obliges, long enough for me to feel my blood pressure drop. "Hang in there, kiddo. It'll all be back to normal soon."

*****

"Shall we?" I offer to take Hanna's arm as we exit the pub, leaving Craig alone with the bartender as he packs up the karaoke machine. Hanna obliges, and we start down the street to their car. Frankly, I think it's a good thing I'm there, as otherwise Hanna might wander into the street. "Tipsy" doesn't do it justice.

As we round the corner, the arm-in-arm turns into arms-around-each-other dancing down the sidewalk. What does Craig make of all this, I wonder? He didn't say anything tonight as Hanna kept pecking my cheek and laughing with me. As we reach the car, Hanna falls into my arms, and gives me another peck. I return the favor, and debate internally whether it's worth the shot.

Something I saw recently comes to mind, and my decision is easy. Pulling back slightly and cradling her face in my hands, I whisper, "I hope Craig forgives me for this..."

"Please don't," Hanna interjects, grabbing my wrists and pulling my hands down to my sides. "I'll feel bad."

"You're right. I'm sorry." Hopefully that didn't ruin anything...

"No worries," she says, pulling me into another hug. "Got a lot of love for ya, just...not that kind of love."

I nod slowly. "How many times do I have to hear that?"

Hanna squeezes even tighter. "You'll find her. Soon."

*****

As I grab my coat and watch my computer shut down, I give a nod over the cubicle wall to Carrie--our signal for "let's talk." She nods back, shuts down her computer, and follows me to the back door of the building.

"Still hearing Eric's voice in your ears? I know I would be." My boss does not seem capable of delivering criticism quietly.

"It's not that," I reply, barely above a whisper. "It's Liz. I'm...having serious doubts." I spend the next ten minutes pouring out my problems, not knowing exactly what advice I expect or want to hear.

"Look, I don't know whether you're supposed to end this or not. But just suppressing all of that is only going to make things worse. She deserves to know what you're feeling, and whatever happens after that...will be what's supposed to happen."

"Did you and John go through this same thing before you got married?" Carrie nods. "How did you get past it?"

"We talked it through. And that's what you need to do as well." She's never been one to shy away from tough love, and I appreciate that. Carrie looks at her watch. "Look, I gotta run." She gives me a quick but fierce hug. "You'll be okay."

*****

"Thanks again for the distraction," Amanda says as we park in front of her place, just in time to see the sun peek over the hill.

"No problem. I think we'll both sleep very well tonight--er, this morning...afternoon?" We've spent the last six hours running around a laser-tag arena, dressed as Indiana Jones (me) and Rey from Star Wars (her). It was something she'd mentioned wanting to do, and with Jim out of town, this seemed like a good opportunity.

We stagger out of the car, Amanda gathering all of her stuff together in her arms, then somehow finding a way to hug me around all of it. "Hang in there, girl," I whisper. "One more sleep, and you'll be back where you belong. With Jim."

"Absolutely," Amanda replies, squeezing a little tighter. "See you Monday at karaoke?"

"Assuming I'm back to a regular sleep schedule by then."

"Cool. Thanks again."

*****

I find it amazing that such a diverse group of actors have played the same role in my life. These women have been my confidantes, the people I can go to when I need to complain about my love life (or, more frequently, my lack thereof), moan about my job (or, on occasion, my lack thereof), or simply fall into someone's arms when I need a hug.

One thing that makes this possible is that, without exception, these women are in relationships themselves, almost entirely alleviating any awkwardness around romance that might arise--because a romance simply isn't going to happen. Through them, I've learned so much about what makes women tick, and those lessons have served me well.

As the seasons of my life change, so does the person in that role. But I know that character's never going to be written out of the script.