Vertigo

The Bard Hall gym has a terrace, which is kind of weird, it being in a basement.

The twisted geography of Washington Heights places back side of the gym atop a four-story drop overlooking the river. So while I was listening to blaring workout music, every few seconds a pleasant river breeze splashes me from the direction of the window. I wanted to go out and look down, and stare at the water a bit to cool me off between sets. While I did a little bit of supplements myself, A has been stacking creatine and nitric oxide and protein and magic dust and God-knows what, and I was a little miffed and groggy since I couldn’t keep up. I wanted the water.

But I’m afraid of heights.

I envy normal people. When they are on a bridge they can look over the side, clutching the bars, even bending their upper torso over the edge to look below. When we were at B’s party in Columbus Circle we went out to the patio - and everyone were able to easily just walk to the edge of the 20-story drop and look down to admire New York. So cool that I can’t do it.

Back in high school, I climbed on top of the MIT amphitheater with a couple of friends. Maybe it was because one of them climbs tall buildings for sport, maybe it was because the other one was really cute, or maybe it was because the first friend had the same opinion of the second as I did. At the top, the moon really looked like blue cheese from “up-close,” the girl was cuter in the moonlight, and the hardest part was getting down because I had to look down.

I was thinking and thinking about that moment and why now, six years later, I am so afraid to just walk outside. Then I laughed. A was doing skullcrushers (concentration required) so he didn’t notice . It was obvious, especially because I was in a weight room - muscles atrophy from disuse.

The fear of heights, no matter how genetic or powerful, is mainly a psychological belief. My phobia level, while it did hit the physiological zone, did not go much past faintness, nausea, and headaches. The fact that I can ride airplanes is good testimony. For tame cases like me, it is mostly a limiting belief that creates a self-fulfilling prophecy, since I’m less inclined to look down steep areas and thus less likely to overcome that fear. While the “muscle gain” from my first “set” years ago is all gone, nothing says I can’t start another set.

For the warmup, I just had to look down for 10 seconds. I felt the fainting, I felt the heartbeats, and I felt like I was going to throw up. But my mental ticker hit 10 I backtracked into the weight room, palms were sweating like crazy. The next one was 15, and the last set was 20. My knees felt like they were going to collapse (it is a crazy feeling, but I could feel the muscles go completely limp), I let go and almost fell, but my palms weren’t sweaty anymore. Weightlifting is so weird.

Bobby McFerrin Concert

LW is staying over for a week, and Chen is jealous, so we agree to watch a Bobby McFerrin concert with Chen and her friend Silvia. Getting off work a early, I magically make it to Carnegie Hall on time, despite the train-track suspension, wondering what I should expect beyond the Youtube videos (my one source of knowledge about the musical legend). Of course the jabbering female trio rudely interrupt my thinking, asking me from behind to move because my seat was reserved for their friend “who is probably late. ” I guess I have sexy back. Although I admit that the performance was totally another level back of sexy.

Bobby McFerrin is a tremendous presence. Calling him a “walking instrument” is inaccurate because he is definitely more than one. While singing, he taps both his microphone with his right pinky and drums his chest with his left palm for percussion - to accompany what seems like sometimes two simultaneous vocals from his mouth, a trick that I’ve also seen Wang Li Hom do (though it is still voodoo to me).

The rest of the Voicestra (three members for each of the four ranges) were not merely there for display, either. One of the alto ladies sang a free association which started with fruit baskets and the holes in them; two women comboed up for a tribal/folk -like vocal, which McFerrin transitioned into a haunting, almost primal melody; one of the bass made up a gospel track that filled the whole stadium. Between these improvised “solos,” which weren’t quite solos because the other members of the group would figure out accompaniments and start supporting the main vocal, were repeats of the same formula that worked way too damn well. Bobby would conjure up something with syllables that only he understands and dance up to each of the ranges and hang on his phrase. In two or three measures, they would grok his piece and join, creating a full-fledged “Voicestra” that was somehow able to slow down in a smooth coordination.

I couldn’t help smiling watching all of this because they seemed to have had so much damn fun up there. They chuckled and jabbed each other every time Bobby successfully made up one of this somethings; two of the sopranos spontaneously started teaching each other dance movements while singing, getting the third one to join in (which was tremendously cute because she was about sixty); when they asked for a volunteer to try to lead them in an improvisation and got a ridiculously talented guy who successfully led a whole piece, the Voicestra immediately did a poppy tribute song for him revolving around the phrase “Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben Ben” (the guy’s name was Ben).

Bobby, who does this all in a blue T-shirt and jeans, didn’t waste much time talking. When he entered he immediately began his first piece; he only resigned to sit on the edge of the stage with the rest of the Voicestra to chat with the fans for a while after it was clear that the applauding fans weren’t leaving. After answering a few singing requests and politely declining further ones, McFerrin answered the questions with a mix of simplicity and wit. After the audience laughed when he claimed that improvisation is “not hard,” he explained that “all you needed to do” was to “always sing” and to “never stop”: “You never get stuck… the most stuck you are is if you are hanging on a phrase. Then just keep hanging. You just keep singing until you get that next note, and then you are unstuck.”

“It is like talking,” LW says. She is right as always - it really is like talking. You have to be confident, skirting the boring old small talk, and keep moving the conversation into more interesting directions. If you find one of those rare but joyful moments where all conversationalists present fall in love with the subject, you’ll not only forget the time, you will forget you’re talking.

Bobby also talked about his simple home, which apparently comes from the same fantasy where his soothing notes live before he plucks them out for us: a house in the woods so quiet that “you can hear the snow fall,” where he can go out for a walk every day with his dogs, and sing. Everyday. “Of course I’m not going to tell you where it is, so you can’t find me,” he jokes, but seriously - quietness is the most hard-to-find and undervalued commodity in Manhattan, something I’ve personally been continuously seeking in the City for the last six months or so.

In defiance of my horrible musical skills (I am, without doubt, the least musically gifted/experienced Asian I know, a miracle given the way Asian parents think), I improvised four songs on the walk back from work, ignoring the traffic, the wind, or the time. One sounded like really bad pop, and the other three resembled cliched video game music. But they were bearable, since I never stopped. And I was happy.

-YZ

I’m not too Different from George Bush

I read a damn good article about a week ago titled The Illustrated President from Harper’s Magazine. The subject is the following painting:

Cliff’s Notes: Our eminent president is moved by the above painting of a fearless missionary determined to uphold American values in the Godless West. He takes the painting’s heroic name, A Charge to Keep, for his autobiography. A little research tells us that the painting was an illustration for a short story depicting a horse thief running away from his persecutors, blessed with the caption “Had His Start Been Fifteen Minutes Longer He Would Not Have Been Caught.” Scott Horton ends his bitter analysis of President Bush with:

So Bush’s inspiring, proselytizing Methodist is in fact a horse thief fleeing from a lynch mob. It seems a fitting marker for the Bush presidency. Bush has consistently exhibited what psychologists call the “Tolstoy syndrome.” That is, he is completely convinced he knows what things are, so he shuts down all avenues of inquiry about them and disregards the information that is offered to him. This is the hallmark of a tragically bad executive. But in this case, it couldn’t be more precious. The president of the United States has identified closely with a man he sees as a mythic, heroic figure. In fact that man is a wily criminal one step out in front of justice. It perfectly reflects Bush the man . . . and Bush the president.

It’s a delightfully safe fad to poke fun at Bush. However, after I laughed, I thought about the painting a little more seriously and began to wonder if I really should be laughing at myself for all of my similarities to the President.

I think art has two parts: one of the artist creating the product and one of the viewer experiencing it. A hamster in front of Mona Lisa will not experience the painting as one of the most celebrated paintings in history - it will probably be just a big piece of wood, maybe even something to chew on or even pee on. Thus, Mona Lisa is not art to the hamster. I would have a “better appreciation” of the piece than the hamster, but honestly probably not by much. While part of the value of the piece comes from the artist, the experience changes so much with the viewer that two different viewers may get two very different and legitimate responses after viewing the same piece of art. Thus, they have part of the right to saying what that art “is” - at least for themselves. While the artist did create the product, I do not think he or she has complete domination over what the art *is* or *is not.* Suppose a scientist creates the Death Ray in pursuit of scientific knowledge - I doubt the scientist has the complete right in saying that the Death Ray is not a weapon if the rest of the world sees it as a weapon and uses it as a weapon.

What about baseball? To some it is a slow, painful-to-watch game involving a bat, a ball, and some running. To some it is the best game invented on earth that involves a bat, a ball, and some running. To some it is a symbol of America and all that is great about it. To some it is a symbol of corporate America and all that is evil about it. I don’t think any of these parties would really care anymore what the original creator of baseball made it to be, such that if they were going back in time to visit the creator only to realize he made it as a way to get some exercise for his drinking buddies and there happened to have been a broken stick sitting around the pub, they would probably tell the creator he was wrong. It is surprising how embittered and personal these arguments can get for more “serious” things, especially when it comes to modern art or the Bible. Many people, Christians or not, would probably agree that Jesus himself might have been very surprised at the state of Christianity in the present times and what different people think it “means.”

So maybe Bush was right in his own way, minus the research he really should have taken on the painting. Tolstoy syndrome or not, Bush let this painting mean something to him and forged a system of beliefs surrounding it, regardless of the artist’s original intentions, which I do not think should be the final word of what the painting *is* or *is not.* Now, whether those beliefs were used for good or for bad I do not know enough to comment, but I do not think it is really different from anything I do in my own life.

-YZ

P.S. image source: wikipedia

Teaching

I’ve always enjoyed teaching - I taught 4 out of my 6 semesters in college out of my kind heart (the pay was negligible, but enough to pay for textbooks and a couple of meals at the cafe). Grading was a pain in the ass and most people don’t come to sections (except during exam reviews the room magically fills up), but even the zen experience of showing up to teach the weekly section for 3 or 4 heads cleansed my soul. Occasionally, I form a really nice connection with a couple of students - and I see the click of knowledge. Knowledge is one of the few precious resources we have that does not follow a conservation law, so I wanted to exploit this as much as possible. I would trade grading 5 problem sets for each spark of insight I see someone gain, since I knew how clear the whole world looked when I would have one of those sparks.

Recently though, I’ve found an unlikely student in an unlikely situation.

One of my friends from high school, J, decided to take off time after graduation to float his own boat. J. is an ambitious banana with more ideas than he can carry and an allergy to cubicles, so this was no surprise. After drifting for a few months, J decided he had learned enough from his experiences and wanted to try new things. However, instead of directly applying for jobs (and he did get a few sweet offers), he decided that he had a new love for studying - and taking tests. Soon he finished studying for the GMATs and the CFA, and he came upon a new goal - to take the GRE Math.

This started as a joke, probably from my end. But who would guess that someone with barely any math experience would take this test, usually something only someone interested in a math Ph D. would take? The frat boy was serious though, and I took him up on it.

I was reminded of my own curiosity as a 12-year old - I looked at big pictures. I was excited about big theorems and connections between mathematics. I loved jumping at all problems and tried to solve them (including Fermat’s Last Theorem, the Four Color Theorem, and everything else) without any care of how difficult they were. I did not know the technical ugliness that would await me. Everything was new, unlike now, the cynical part of the relationship - which is why I’m taking a break from math in the first place. I am happy when J asks the dumb questions - because now I’m forced to think about them and answer and not just assume I knew all the little details. I am happy when he asks the big questions - then I get to make big abstract speeches about how pretty of math is, which is funny since right now I don’t have any love for it, much like talking fondly of an ex to a third party only remembering everything I liked about her. I am happy when he stumbles, not only because it is amusing and a reminder of my own troubles when I learn, but also because it shows that he is trying. Finally, I am happy when he triumphs, even in the smallest of proofs or the smallest first precise use of a new term, because it means something worked between us.

Besides my own soul searching, I have learned many life lessons. Usually, when I taught, it was a teacher-student situation. This was a mixture between a teacher-student situation and a friend-friend situation. Furthermore, in a one-on-one situation I felt like I had to do more. I was more possessive, I pushed more, I thought I knew the best thing to do for him at every step. I was annoyed since he seemed to have wanted to learn analysis, topology, algebra, and geometry all at the same time, through several books. Looking back, I might be wrong - that’s certainly how I approached math when I was younger and nobody stopped me. While it was not the most efficient, it was the most fun, and you can’t learn if you don’t have fun. It is funny how I started reminding myself of my pushy parents through all of this, even though I was dealing with someone a year older than I was. Upon realizing the eternal horror of realizing that “you are becoming your parents,” I can raise two immediate lessons - One, I should step back and think more about my teaching strategy - instead of thinking what is best for him, I should think what is the best way for me to get him to understand what he wants to learn. Two, instead of looking at my parents’ pushes with annoyance, I should look back and understand what they wanted a bit more - they just wanted to build someone in the direction they wanted, thinking they knew what was best.

There are still a few months to go. I’ve learned a lot already, and I hope he has been learning at least as much =) to be honest, he is the one doing most of the work. Maybe the teacher-student relationship isn’t so asymmetrical after all.

-Y

P.S. Thanks to LW for the artistic genius.

Happy New Year

No content here, just a quick update:

1) I’ve started to contribute to a secret blog, so some of my time has gone there. It may go public at some point or it may not.

2) I’ve removed the blogroll and added a “Link” page instead.

I’ve been a little busy. But I’ll write more soon.

-YZ

Turkey Day Reminesces - Friends

A turkey is not necessarily just a bird, like in the above beautiful drawing. It can be an annoying person, an ineffectual investment, or a failed event. My Turkey Day was then actually a turkey, since I failed to sync my plans and transportation effectively this year and ended up staying home. If all plans worked out correctly, I would have happily gone back, invited myself (and everyone else, haha) to J’s, and have yet another 5-hour-session of vegging with the crew from high school. As an adult now, sometimes these outings are still all I wish to do on a weekend.

The Boston weekend half a month ago was the best example, when Team DARKNESSSSSSS (7 S’s), a way-too-ironic attempt to parody an immature bunch of middle school males on Halo 3, was spontaneously born. MZ, DARKNESSSSSSS, took the role probably too literally when he started to solicit girls over the voice communicator, but it was, of course, all role-playing (I think). I am even somewhat thankful that Halo 3 did not allow multiple user names on the same account, which stuck me with DARKNESSSSSSS(3) as my name.

It wasn’t about the game, really. I like games, but I never play Halo, so my achievements amount to being a human scarecrow for the team (and my one incredible melee that dispatched a motorcycle rider cleanly out of his seat). It was still all right though, because it was for Team DARKNESSSSSSS. No deathmatches - we were one organism, a team that hasn’t been together in real life for a while: J was actually there instead of being with his female entourage; P, on his poor med student salary and intense med student schedule, was able to make it; against all odds, H showed up, gracing us with his presence from a busy life of weightlifting, botany, or whatever weird thing he is into now.

The whole weekend was surreal. We even watched Dead or Alive together and had a hoot, even though it was probably the worst movie I have seen in the past few years (though P swears that Lucky You trumps it). Even the 5-hour rides up and down with P weren’t too bad as a trade for time spent with friends.

Of course, back to reality - my plans got jinxed and I would not be able to do any of these things this weekend. I was stuck in Stamford - might as well make the best of it. For starters - I haven’t cooked for myself much since the company subsidizes so much food, so it was a good time to practice. I am also in middle of a couple of books that I never read, so I can kill them off too.

Waking up Thanksgiving morning, I realized just how tired I was. Going to New York every weekend is fun, but it is a huge energy sink. Given the circumstances, I decided to stay put in quiet, pleasant Stamford and explore my own thoughts. Staying home, I finally have time for myself, not just my friends. I have work to do; I have to go shopping; I have to run errands; I have to walk outside on a beautiful sunny day with music in my ears, watching passersby along Bedford St; I found a TV show that I have been waiting to watch for years; I improved my lifts; I installed my new laptop, monitor, and reorganized my music library. . .

What about them? They are probably together now, eating good food, bowling, basketball, more Halo, plasma TV watching sports. . . they might even be practicing popping without me (they better not). I even remember last Thanksgiving fondly, though that was when J and I waited outside Circuit City for forever while the guys “accidentally” forgot to come (they were “sidetracked” since they were offered lots of good food at J’s place, so they had to eat - and maybe watch a little TV - but eventually brought us warm food to pay for our troubles). I wonder how long this will all last? It eventually has to stop, right?

All I know is that by taking this weekend off and not being with them, I will enjoy the next one more. Christmas plans will be made well in advance. This is what Thanksgiving is about - knowing what to be thankful for. I am actually thankful that I did not go back for Thanksgiving, because it gave me time to think about all of this while wrapping up some unfinished things in my own life. In another one of these cute turns and twists that make life life, I think I just came out of another win-win situation.

- DARKNESSSSSSS(3), signing out.

New York - 9/25 weekend

“Sleep is the cousin of death.”

- Nas, NY State of Mind, Illmatic

I was probably transgressing some New York law by calling people to hang out right before a Mets game. By the time I realized this, which was 3 phone calls later, I was already on the train into the most proud city of the world for basically the first time (*). I took a long nap to Imogen Heap, whose music seems oddly fitting for any occasion, and woke up right at Grand Central, ready to rock.

Manhattan people sweep through the streets, as if in unison, although each one is actually keenly aware of his or her own sphere of New York Personal Space. You Do Not mess with New York Personal Space. I saw a photographer try to take a snapshot of a lady’s dog, only to be spat upon with a lesson about rights and liberty and privacy in the United States (the photographer was audibly European). I learned my lesson and decided to avoid angry, busy-looking people, which unfortunately seemed to include everybody. People were always going somewhere, and made it clear that if you talked to them they would punch you. This was a slanted contrast with Tokyo, where people were also always going somewhere, but only made it clear that if you talked to them they would avoid you.

I called W to meet up at around 4PM, and decided to explore The Strand to fulfill my book dose, which I haven’t had for a while now.

(source: about.com)

It did not disappoint. I had to willfully leave my wallet in my checked bag so I wouldn’t walk out with forty pounds of books on my reading list that I would never get to. The most painful part was seeing Borges’ Collected Fictions going for $12. Luckily, at this point W already got to Union Square, so I had to grab the bag and go. Next time it will not be this easy.

I hit Forever 21 with W and quickly realized that the men’s section was only about one tenth of the store. W promised me she’d only take 15 more minutes, which in shopping girls’ time seems to mean about an hour. That’s what I realized after I browsed through all of Virgin nextdoor. At least I heard some sickly good music. Nothing prepared me for what was waiting for me right outside Virgin though:

(source: http://www.chicagoreader.com)
Hypnotic Brass Ensemble. Playing Balicky Bon. It was love at first listen. I instantly walked up to buy the album when they finished playing, handing out $15 of the $100 I brought into New York (yes, I only brought $100 to New York. More on this stupidity later) to buy a CD off of a band on the streets. This was not just a CD though, this is music running through your body like if it were your blood.

Before I start breaking out moves, W finally gets out of Forever 21 (…) and we are in Chinatown. A random walk (every block one of us’d pick a direction) later, we end up at a Shanghainese restaurant and dig in. I get a cocktail called the ZOMBIE. It was awesome. Zombie. W is outraged that I have never been in Times Square, so we fix that. It felt like Shinjuku in Tokyo at night, just with more people. Sweaty like hell, we make it a quest to go to a cafe that was not Starbucks (there were like 5 Starbucks in Times Square), succeed, and I somehow get hot tea while W gets iced coffee. We reminesce and look at walkersby through the window. Everybody is going somewhere.

Back in her apartment, W challenges me to a drinking contest which we defer (though we both took about 3 shots of gin). I meet W’s roomate S who knows more about sports than I will ever do, watch the last part of Remember the Titans (S knows every line!!), and crash. Zzz. Zombie.

(source: http://graveyard.roguelikedevelopment.org)

After waking, we meet up with A and six other friends for dim sum in Chinatown. I feel much older, even though I wasn’t.

After saying bye to W, who went to the museum with the rest of the crowd, the only-bringing-$100-to-New-York thing really hit me. I realized I had almost no money left. After some quick thinking, I concluded that desperate gambling was the only way. I took $2 out of my last $4 and went down to Brooklyn to meet P. After talking about the sketchy neighborhood and musing about poker, finance, and life, P laughed at my stupidity and took me into his “work office” (his room where he plays poker). He bought 50% of me and let me go crazy playing $1/$2 NL online. I win $180 somehow, with greatly played 7To several times (much to P’s chagrin), and take $90 back. Now I can go home to Stamford.

Back, exhaustion, bed, death. Zombie. Sleep is the cousin of death. Pretty fucking Illmatic.

(source: wikipedia)
(*) Not counting the one trip last week, which was only for dinner. This was Cafe Mogador, where the lamb tagine was amazing.

Stamford, CT - The Piano

Downtown Stamford is an indecisive place, flipflopping between a suburb and a city, populated by a mix of people who I feel don’t belong to the same area. Something like Harvard Square, really.

The mall here is gigantic, and one place that struck me the most was a coliseum-esque “theater” with a piano resting on the bottom. People sit on the seats and watch others stride to and fro, and people above watch the watchers in turn from the 5th and 7th floors. I have never yet seen anyone walk down to play the piano, but the picture itself is hauntingly melodic - I can hear the notes even though nobody is playing. The scene itself is a respite amidst a busy display of conspicuous consumption, the flow of which is slowed as one shopping bag after another pass by the piano.

San Antonio

A fiercely Southern state, San Antonio creates an isosceles triangle of unmistakable Texan-ness with its neighbors Houston and Austin. Two years ago I came here to Trinity University as a student doing research, now I return as an alum giving a talk. I chose to stay past my presentation to mingle with the students, which was a great choice.

1) The students are vibrant with character. J.J. has great taste in the visual media, including The Westing Game, Imogen Heap, and The Golden Compass; T. is the all-around cool guy you wish to show off to your friends since he is good at everything; C. is a Linux-toting hacker girl who isn’t afraid to mix it up with the guys in poker. Of course, there are also the assistants: Enrique, one of my poker mentors with a great appreciation for people and life, and Nathan, who sprinkles sparkles of humor in every event and lightens up every gloomy day (great, given the curious fact that it rained basically every day here).

2) El Milagrito (”the Miracle”) is still the Mexican restaurant of choice for 6AM, with $5 breakfasts that feed you for a whole day. Their portions are generous with no remorse for your stomach storage space, and their quality holds nothing back. The new founds for me are the barbacoa and the migas plates, both dishes to consider learning for future cravings.

3) The Tower of the Americas:

(source: Wikipedia) is one of the attractions which slipped by me two summers ago. To conquer my fear of heights, I went on this trip with many of the students and took in a beautiful visage of the city, a mosaic of lights and sounds at night.

On the top level of the tower, I approached and chatted with a group of four cute girls getting ready for a bachlorette party, because L. and I observed and made comments about one of them’s scarf. Later realizing that she was the lucky girl, I wished her good luck instead.

4) At the annual party at Dr. C’s house, I was treated again to a sumptuous meal presented by the happy couple, and took great advantage of my 21-year-old-ness by helping myself to five glasses of wine, three red and two white. Then I used the alcohol as fuel to play a few games of Horse with D., L., R., and Nathan.

The highlight of the party was playing Guitar Hero for the first time, against a 6-year-old Jonathan even. What clean and perfect design. ; (Source: Wikipedia).

Lessons? Thoughts?

a) People are really the ultimate drug in this world. My high from this trip will continue for at least a couple of more weeks.

b) Need to learn more ping-pong. Can’t wait until Balls of Fury comes out, though Ping Pong, which I saw recently, was definitely worth it.

c) Re-invest in Ubuntu.

-Yan

Atlantic City

21 is the magical age where we get to sin legally. My 18th birthday called for buying of cigarettes, porn, and a lottery ticket, even though I didn’t smoke or watch the porn or play the lottery ticket, just because I had the power. My 21st, of course, was for gambling.

MZ drove me and J, blasting loud badass Asian music, up the toll road to the city of Monopoly streets. The first quest was, of course, not getting to the casino, but finding those legendary White Castle sliders that stick to the roof of your mouth and melt, exuding succulent sweetness. Like in the movie, this was the most difficult part of the trip, as the dudes we met kept telling us that a local White Castle had shut down and we had to go out of the way each time we asked for a White Castle. 3 hours of search failed, so we gave up and just headed for AC. This will be a mission we set for another day - hopefully including the hot farmer’s wife part and not including the battleshit.

In AC I kept looking for Baltic and Meditteranean, my favorite cute little purple properties/streets, but all I saw was Ventnor. We didn’t even go to the Boardwalk. We booked a $170 hotel and headed straight for the Taj, where Andrew + co. were.

What followed are many sessions of 1/2 live play through 3 days. I remember about 6 good hands, but I’ll just save my favorite one and dedicate most of the report to atmosphere and feel.

First session: P and his two Penn friends (Sam and some dude I didn’t know) were coming a bit later, and Andrew + co. were playing a tournament, so it was just the three of us for now. The first session was learning everything the hard way. I like to point at the pot when I count the size of the pot - but it was interpreted as a check. Twice. After only showing down AQo to win a decent pot with top pair good kicker and winning the other two uncontested, I triple barreled into a paired board representing trips, and got a call (after 3 minutes of thinking) from this tight dude with 2nd boat, who thought for sure I had top boat and was totally shocked to see me with ace high and gave me some lessons on playing. Oops. Down $260.

Intermission: MZ, J, Y, and I went to the place with Kobe burgers on the other floor and talked about hands. MZ,Y, and I shared a large pepperoni, but J refused to share the pizza with us and partake in the camaraderie, citing stomach problems. This mistake will bite him in the ass later.

Session 2: This time I’m at the same table as J. We both set up tight-aggressive games, and I go crazy whenever a decent number of people fold pf. I try to make convo with people but they seem to be less fun. I gradually build my stack, and valuebet stacks for a turned mid trips into this tight guy who berates me after the hand for betting flop with mid pair even after I have shown aggression pf. I also get 3 bets out of the same dude with top pair, better kicker. At the end he starts to complain to the table because I raised pre with 8Ts even though I was button and only a couple of late guys limped. Thanks. I flopped a straight and stacked someone there. I also ran mad hot. +870.

Intermission: this session, MZ was up 300, Y was up 200, and J was down 300. This was because J did not eat the Pizza of Victory. So let that be a lesson to you all.

Session 3: Next day (after stuffing 5 cheap people into a 2-bed hotel room) was Borgata. The dealers were better, waitresses were hotter, and I think the players were a bit better as well. People were still pretty much weak tight, with a couple of rocks. My table remained full, and I floated around 300. Near the middle of the session, I called an 80 bet into a 100 pot since the guy had a really weird betting pattern and I had only seen him valuebet with less. Since the board was uber-drawy and I had the missed ace high flush draw, I hero-call, ignoring phantom Paul’s lectures in my head, and took it down. That was unfortunately the best pot of the day. I think I stacked off twice with top pair against small stacks. Then some sketchy guy gave us info of a strip joint with chauffeur service. Down $500.

Session 4: We go back to the Taj since Borgata left a sour taste in our mouths (everyone was down). WTF Paul this is all your fault. I build a stack and then semibluff a reraised pot all in into a player with a combo draw. This is probably the most marginal hand I’ve played on the trip, as the guy shows a flush (6Ts… ) and takes my 400 stack. I then lose 200 or so due to what I think was normal play. MZ was at my table and didn’t change his stack much. J at the next table reads his straight flush as a small flush and folds to a huge river AI bet (it was the nut flush). Down $600. =(

Intermission: P and his friends go home. MZ, J, George (who just got in with us) and I are sorta bummed. We try to have some fun in the town, but it got late and sketchy, so we decide to sleep and call it quits tomorrow. This was the end and we should cut our losses right there.

Session 5: when I woke up, I realize a few things I already knew:

1) I don’t think I was playing badly. As a whole, I don’t think we were playing badly.

2) I didn’t tilt, and I was not going to tilt.

3) Cash poker is one long game. Why should I be scared and quit now?

This was my birthday weekend, my time to be wiser, my time to make the correct decisions. I fucking call a pep rally and saying we cannot end on the note that was last night. I hear badass Gladiator music in my head and bring the troops to the Taj for one last battle. At the cashier, we shout our battlecry in unison: “THIS IS TAAAAAAAJ!” and MUTHAFUCKING CASH IN THREE STACKS OF LOW SOCIETY.

Okay we don’t really shout, but you get the point. A few hands in, this happens:

I’m pretty aggressive here, been taking down uncontested pots. I have ATs in the cutoff, so I raise 2 limpers to 10 and get 1 caller from a huge stack. Flop comes AcJTc rainbow. Jackpot. he checks, I bet 15, he calls. Pot now 50.
Turn comes a 7 or whatever. He checks, I bet 40, he calls. Pot now 130.
River comes a Kc. He shoves for about 200.

I don’t think this is necessarily an instafold, so I think about it and fold. I try to keep up some solid play, and later I call a huge bet from the same guy on the river with top pair no kicker (again, weird betting pattern) and get revenge. Phantom Paul is rolling in his grave seeing me make another hero call, but at least I got lucky and was 2 for 2. +$450.

So in total, I was (not counting rake) -260 + 870 - 500 - 600 + 450 ~ -40. There was also hotel and food and that kinda cost so it was a -value trip.

But money was not the important part, the experience was. Game-wise, I learned to adjust to live casino FR play (I’m used to 6max) . Friend-wise, my boys were awesome and we had a lot of fun, especially since we don’t see each other at all during the year. We all learned a bit about poker and about life - you totally meet all kinds of people at the casino.

There was the nice lady at J’s right on the final table who basically told him to make correct plays against her, like telling him to fold and then showing her hand honestly. There was the silent old man to my left who called down everything, sighed when he loses or gets outdrawn, and just kept reloading for 100 or 200 more until we took all of his money. There was the table coach (at several of my tables) who eventually saw his money given to the other players through his “more correct” play. Poker is just a microcosm of social aggression and defense.

But this is not just poker, this is also the casino. When I walk outside for fresh air and see the brooding town with its run-down buildings and unhappy people (maybe because of the casinos?) and go back into the casinos filled with sparkling light, beauty, and wholesomeness, I get a bit wiser - enough to make me 21, I suppose.

-Yan

P.S.: biggest casino FR adjustments:

1) people really respect bets/raises, and people don’t pay attention. This can actually be exploited by betting less on bluffs, something that online players catch on, if not immediately then over the long run with PT and such.

2) People as a whole had no concept of position, stack sizes, etc. People will donk a ton and minraise a ton. Minraises are usually a sign of polarized hand strength, and almost never a TP type of hand.

3) I’d say about 50% of players are weak-tight, 40% of players are weak-loose, 10% of players are tight-semi-aggressive (in that I think they don’t think beyond a flop cbet or a river bluff against extreme weakness, and they bet small. But they win this game). I saw only one other player who went anything close to LAG, and one nut peddler who have only shown down flopped sets or boats for a really long session (and doing things like folding AJo in LP with a couple of limpers, which I think is really too much on the tight side for a passive table).