Why book clubs are abomination; not really, well, kinda.

What got this started

I was out to lunch when someone mentioned how the pace of her book club was making her forget what she had read.

She said, “I remember books I read in high school and college just fine but I don’t remember book club books from just a few months ago.

I said, always trying to be helpful, “That’s because book clubs are an abomination.”

“Hey,” she said. “I really love my book club. You suck.”

Who invented book clubs anyway?

Honestly, who gives a shit? Book clubs are here and people (think) they like ‘em. And, isn’t liking something what life generally and reading specifically is all about? Could be but there’s something else going on here.

All of us have easy access to way more books than we can ever read. That’s not always been true, of course. Before being shut down on charges of anti-book club heresy I tried to stimulate a moment of deeper thought when I asked, “How many books would you guess Shakespeare read over the course of his life?”

Dozens, possibly hundreds but unlikely thousands as so many of today’s avid readers consume. Yes, I said consume as humans consume food as part of an endless cycle of food in / waste out. Imagine a food that continues to nourish over weeks, days and years. In reading, those are books remembered, returned to, quoted and treasured. Book club books are destined to be forgotten, like an unsubstantial meal that provides little if any sustaining nourishment.

The same effect, driven by ubiquity, also happens with music. Casual listening drove omnipresent music first into elevators and now Spotify. Think about the last series you binge-watched, unable to be sated, uninterested in waiting until next week before devouring the next episode. Have you ever started what looks like an interesting series only to realize somewhere during the first episode that you’ve already watched the series from beginning to end.

For all of this to work, an endless stream of media has to exist and it does. And so we have more and more consumption and less and less genuine respect for what is being created.

Reading and listening, are they the same?

Of late, a book reviewer at the New York Times wrote a piece telling the world that she’d come to fully embraced audio books over actual reading. I could not fight my way through the entire article. When she went so far as to contend that listening to a book was the same as reading I had to close the virtual pages of the newspaper I was reading.

I can imagine an indignant mother of a second or third grader scolding a primary grade teacher for requiring students to learn to read when even reviewers at the New York Times now prefer listening to reading.

Why should my child bother to learn to read?

By the next morning it struck me that the reviewer was actually minimizing both reading and listening by unwisely equating each. Do I actually have to say that reading and listening are two different processes? The reviewer went on to sing the praises of audio books because she could listen while she knitted or crocheted or wove baskets or whatever. Full disclosure, I’ve done the same except I’m doing something truly constructive like practicing my tennis serve. Still, I am not reading while hitting my out-wide slice. I am listening and listening is an active and rewarding process.

We can dig deeper by thinking about music. We nearly always listen to music yet some cognoscenti read music while listening which might give insight as to the performer’s fidelity to what’s been notated onto the score. That kind of listening is quite intense and so is also quite uncommon.

What got this started 

I was out to lunch when someone mentioned how the pace of her book club was making her forget what she had read.

She said, “I remember books I read in high school and college just fine but I don’t remember book club books from just a few months ago.

I said, always trying to be helpful, “That’s because book clubs are an abomination.”

“Hey,” she said. “I really love my book club. You suck.”

Who invented book clubs anyway?

Honestly, who gives a shit? Book clubs are here and people (think) they like ‘em. And, isn’t liking something what life generally and reading specifically is all about? Could be but there’s something else going on here.

All of us have easy access to way more books than we can ever read. That’s not always been true, of course. Before being shut down on charges of anti-book club heresy I tried to stimulate a moment of deeper thought when I asked, “How many books would you guess Shakespeare read over the course of his life?”

Dozens, possibly hundreds but unlikely thousands as so many of today’s avid readers consume. Yes, I said consume as humans consume food as part of an endless cycle of food in / waste out. Imagine a food that continues to nourish over weeks, days and years. In reading, those are books remembered, returned to, quoted and treasured. Book club books are destined to be forgotten, like an unsubstantial meal that provides little if any sustaining nourishment.

The same effect, driven by ubiquity, also happens with music. Casual listening drove omnipresent music first into elevators and now Spotify. Think about the last series you binge-watched, unable to be sated, uninterested in waiting until next week before devouring the next episode. Have you ever started what looks like an interesting series only to realize somewhere during the first episode that you’ve already watched the series from beginning to end.

For all of this to work, an endless stream of media has to exist and it does. And so we have more and more consumption and less and less genuine respect for what is being created.

Reading and listening, are they the same?

Of late, a book reviewer at the New York Times wrote a piece telling the world that she’d come to fully embraced audio books over actual reading. I could not fight my way through the entire article. When she went so far as to contend that listening to a book was the same as reading I had to close the virtual pages of the newspaper I was reading.

I can imagine an indignant mother of a second or third grader scolding a primary grade teacher for requiring students to learn to read when even reviewers at the New York Times now prefer listening to reading. 

Why should my child bother to learn to read?

By the next morning it struck me that the reviewer was actually minimizing both reading and listening by unwisely equating each. Do I actually have to say that reading and listening are two different processes? The reviewer went on to sing the praises of audio books because she could listen while she knitted or crocheted or wove baskets or whatever. Full disclosure, I’ve done the same except I’m doing something truly constructive like practicing my tennis serve. Still, I am not reading while hitting my out-wide slice. I am listening and listening is an active and rewarding process.

We can dig deeper by thinking about music. We nearly always listen to music yet some cognoscenti read music while listening which might give insight as to the performer’s fidelity to what’s been notated onto the score. That kind of listening is quite intense and so is also quite uncommon.

Listeners to audiobooks may like or dislike the narrator’s voice. But hearing the narrator’s interpretation doesn’t bring anyone closer to a genuine — and certainly not a dispositive — understanding of what the author meant.

As an aside, today I finished an audio book called Meet Me at the Museum by Anne Youngson. It’s an unusual novel. The entire book consists of letters sent back and forth between a woman and a man. What’s interesting? Well, I think whatever quality exists in this book is primarily conveyed by the female and male readers, one an English woman and the other a Danish man writing in English (or someone doing a fair impression of a Dane speaking English). The point here is only that interpretation is an art, whether it is the interpretation of words on a page or musical notes on a score.

My hope is that we will all read and listen with greater care and deliberation. Sensitize your own preferences when it comes to the media you consume. Look within rather than asking others to recommend books or music. I think part of what makes art memorable is the effort we put into finding it. And, perhaps most importantly, once you find something, read it again as you would play a song you love, again and again. Treasure what you consume and it will nourish you now and tomorrow. Put another way, read less and you may find that you enjoy reading more in addition to remembering more of what you read. No, you don’t have to quit your book club but you may well be a better reader if you do.

As an aside, today I finished an audio book called Meet Me at the Museum by Anne Youngson. It’s an unusual novel. The entire book consists of letters sent back and forth between a woman and a man. What’s interesting? Well, I think whatever quality exists in this book is primarily conveyed by the female and male readers, one an English woman and the other a Danish man writing in English (or someone doing a fair impression of a Dane speaking English). The point here is only that interpretation is an art, whether it is the interpretation of words on a page or musical notes on a score.

My hope is that we will all read and listen with greater care and deliberation. Sensitize your own preferences when it comes to the media you consume. Look within rather than asking others to recommend books or music. I think part of what makes art memorable is the effort we put into finding it. And, perhaps most importantly, once you find something, read it again as you would play a song you love, again and again. Treasure what you consume and it will nourish you now and tomorrow. Put another way, read less and you may find that you enjoy reading more in addition to remembering more of what you read. No, you don’t have to quit your book club but you may well be a better reader if you do.

Why book clubs are abomination; not really, well, kinda.

My Mom and NASA STS-51I

I can only recall one time my father wasn’t willing to take my mom somewhere. It was 1985 and my mothers wanted to watch Space Shuttle Discovery land at Edwards AFB. Discovery’s flight lasted 7 days, 2 hours, 17 minutes, 42 seconds and it landed on September3, 1985 at 6:15:43 a.m.

But that’s the end of the story and that’s almost never what I’m all about. Now I, like my father, wasn’t crazy about getting up at Oh Dark Thirty but I could see my mom really wanted to go. It wasn’t surprising. My mom liked to watch construction work being done. She liked watching the Lockheed SR-71 under full afterburner at the airshow at Point Mugu.

A Lockheed SR-71 under full afterburner.

In fact, my mother told the story of the sights and sounds of the Blackbird many times after the show. She just loved stuff like that.

A retired Lockheed SR-71A (Blackbird, s/n 64-17972, A19920072000) photographed on a road in front of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum temporary Blackbird storage hangar at Dulles International Airport, Chantilly, Virginia.

On that early autumn morning, I picked my mom up in my 1981 Nissan Diesel pickup truck and we made our way to the high desert a little before 4 a.m. Topanga was quiet but not empty and a early-season Santa Ana was working its way south. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing, sounds and feels like a diesel cruising on a freeway in the dark. There’s a quality to the pitch and rhythm of the engine (in this case the Nissan SD-22, originally designed for use in forklifts) that makes it feel steady and inevitable and loyal as it powers the truck forward into time and space. Somehow, someway, a cruising diesel constantly reminds you that you’re truly going somewhere.

You can feel it in your bones.

We picked up the 405 and left the 118 behind and all was still dark. Sunrise was at 6:27 a.m. and Discovery was supposed to land fifteen minutes before then. Traffic on the 14 was a little heavier going south than north. It felt like we were the only ones heading toward the dry lake even though I knew we weren’t. We rolled on, mostly in silence, my mom commenting from time to time about the way the mountains had been cut to allow the highway to go through.

I don’t remember where we got off the 14. There was no GPS and I don’t even think we brought a map. We only had our reckoning and that turned out to be enough. Looking at a map, I will guess we got off somewhere around Rosamond before we headed east. Finally, we saw a small collection of cars and campers sitting on the side of the road, south of what we could later see was the dry-lake runway itself. I picked a place to park and we got out of the truck and stretched our legs. Then, we waited along with a few hundred others who huddled in small groups in the pre-dawn chill.

A few guys further up the road scanned the sky with binoculars, while trying to guess the direction of Discovery’s approach. Finally, in the very quietest moment, a boom rolled over the desert. Seconds later, a cheer rose from the faithful and everyone looked skyward to catch a glimpse of the shuttle on its approach.

Finally, we could see it. It didn’t look much like an airplane. As it traveled across the indigo sky, it also descended, very fast. It looked very much like a stone falling and it was hard to imagine something falling so fast could ever slow enough to make its way safely down the runway. 

Finally, Discovery made a huge, soft turn and began to approach the dry lake from the east. Now the shape of Discovery could be clearly seen as it lined up perfectly above the center of the runway. Discovery was no more than a few hundred feet away as it passed us, close enough for us to see its red and white parachute billow from the rear of the fuselage. The crowd whooped as it went by and once it was stationary, far in the distance, people began to look at one another, making sure everyone had witnessed what they had experienced. That’s an interesting kind of sharing, seeing something so noteworthy and, for my mom and me, unique in all of our lives. A couple years later, I would again stand at Edwards and look to the sky as Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier in an McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II on the 40th anniversary of his 1947 flight in the Bell X-1.

But on that day in 1985 I thought only of my mother and how lucky we were to share such an amazing experience. My mom turned to me and grabbed my arm. “Paulie, I’m so glad we saw this!”

My Mom and NASA STS-51I

Throwing away an idea

One of the reasons I insure my now-aged 2006 Mini Cooper with Hagerty is the ongoing enjoyment I get from reading their superb Drivers Club quarterly magazine. First of all, the issues are printed. This fact makes me think think back on the USGA’s defunct magazine, Golf Journal, surely one of the best golf periodicals ever and also a stinging example of the USGA’s lack of vision and why golf sucks. I have collected a handful of year’s worth of Drivers Club issues. I keep them in wooden magazine holders I’ve owned for decades. When the dedicated holders got full about a year ago I decided to purge the least-interesting past issue whenever a new issue arrived in my PO Box.

Wednesday is happy hour day (I say day because my friends at Institution don’t do HH every day but only on Wesnesdays and only from 4-6pm. Geez.) at Institution Ale and I made sure to bring my reading glasses so I could devour the issue in a hop and sunshine-augmented vibe. The issue was a little disappointing but I still read most of it. By the time I finished my one-and-done ON PINS & NEEDLES (Session IPA) I had closed the magazine, done with it and sure it was the latest issue not to make it into the vanishing space of my wood magazine holders. By the way, I don’t usually care for session IPAs but this one was excellent, while not at all like being hit over the head as are so many of the big-boned, broad-shouldered IPAs I typically enjoy. After leaving my empty glass on the bar I noticed a trash can and unceremoniously dumped the current issue of Drivers Club.

Then, I forgot all about it.

Until this morning.

While on my 30-minute drive to tennis I made a couple voice memos, two of them actually. After I finished the second recording my mind flashed to the day before and the trashed magazine. And then I remembered the largely subliminal urge that caused me to throw the magazine away.

There was an article in the magazine about a guy who set out in his crappy old Mitsubishi pickup / camper to visit some of the environs of California’s own, John Steinbeck. Something about the guy’s set up irked me. I may not have appreciated the Steinbeck works he focused on, especially Travels with Charley, but there was something else that kept me from reading an essay that might have been right up my reading alley. I know Steinbeck’s work well, having read all of his works (even his superb short stories) with the exception of East of Eden. I could easily do what this guy did (absent the mini-truck camper). What afflicted me was simple road trip envy.

Yes, we recently returned from my family reunion in the midwest.

Yes, we extended our trip with a three-day visit with my dear friend MIB in south-eastern Michigan.

And, yes, we hope to make it to Sacramento sometime this fall.

And, that was enough when it comes to travel for a while.

But, a true road trip is different. I haven’t been on one of those for years. To me, road trips differ significantly from simply traveling by car. One of the main differences is a lack of advanced hotel/motel reservations. This is especially doable when on one’s home turf, which I am whenever I am in California. Unless I’m way north of Redding, I’m more than happy to head for home if I can’t find anywhere to stay. A big challenge for me is finding places in California I’ve not been before or places I’ve forgotten about or would actually like to visit. A friend of mine just got home from riding the historic Skunk Train in Fort Bragg. Fort Bragg is a weak maybe while the Skunk Train is a big probably not.

Even though I’m not excited by the prospect of riding a near-silent rail car I would like to spend some time in California in the 300+ miles from Fort Bragg to Medford, Oregon. Here I am thinking of the Trinity National Forest and the Six Rivers National Forest.

But now the calendar says September and that makes me wonder when we will have the chance to take another road trip.

I hope it’s soon.

In the meantime, I wonder if I can find a copy of the current issue of Hagerty Drivers Club on Ebay?

Throwing away an idea

Confusion, anger and the sublime at McDonald’s

I am at McD watching the long, slow flow of customers who want the kind of help they’re used to but is no longer available. Phase 1 looks like confusion as it comes to the faces of the 40-something and 50-somethings, mostly males.

Do I stand at the counter and wait?

Should I call out?

Pacing across the small space can happen next followed closely by a look of exasperation.

Finally, anger shows up often with an awkward attempt to find others who are suffering similarly in their attempt to buy a Senior Coffee, even though it exists only in their memories.

Nothing works anymore.

You can’t get anything.

Then I realized that we all exist inside of a rapidly changing system. All includes the McD employees and even the people who conceived, designed and put the current system into action. Nearly all of them can remember at least a fews days before kiosks and in-app purchase came into being and fast food meant a uniformed high school kid lashed onto a computer terminal. That kid used to be the tip of the the sword, the singularity where all customer need confronted McD’s ability to accommodate or refuse it. Today, most employees are on the move and no one appears to be slacking off although some move with significantly more determination and purpose. I am talking about teenagers here.

High school age customers know the drill. A few order by app but but most seem to prefer the kiosk. That makes me wonder how they figure out who owes what and who is paying. Somehow it all evens out in the end. The creators of the new regime, and here I resist using the term corporate overlords because I realized that everyone, even the designers and engineers who created the new systems are, themselves, merely reacting to and adapting to continuously shifting sands. No one knows, before it’s tried, if self-check, in-app purchase will work and deliver us all safely to fast-food paradise.

But, back to anger, though sadly, to be sure. Being confused is dandy. I’ve been there. But, letting confusion slip into anger that’s dumped on a 17-year old making minimum wage is totally fucked up. There’s this one kid and I say kid because I honestly cannot say if the employee is a he, she or a they. Because of the employee’s voice I am going to refer to her as she. She is delightful. Big, black framed glasses with curly brown hair working its way out from under her McD baseball hat she has to wear. She seems to smile warmly at everyone, all the time. She is always pleasant. Everything is no problem while her smile goes from warm to warmer. If a smart lawyer saw her, he’d hire her simply for her pleasantness. Pick her up and drop her into a law firm and she’d be a perfect receptionist. Clients would love her. She’d make oodles more money and be on her way to whatever profession she might choose. Yet, who knows? Maybe McD is giving her a different kind of start toward the same kind of eventual destination.

I hope this.

What really bothers me, though, is the thought of some bilious adult, likely a man, being shitty toward her, the kind of shitty that takes the warm glow from her smile.

Confusion, anger and the sublime at McDonald’s

My short story 914 and the cover ChatGPT has been working on.

I’ve finished Part 1 of 914 and I’m pretty happy with it.

It seems our friends at Amazon’s KDP have given up on their MOBI file in favor of their new creation, KPF. For a writer, KPF is just the latest hurdle on the journey to getting what our work onto the KDP platform, but who am I to complain?

Then I thought of something. I composed 914 in my usual app, Apple Notes. Then, after reading about the demise of MOBI on March 18 I noticed that KDP will grudgingly accept an EPUB file. I recalled Apple’s Pages allowed for export to EPUB so I decided to export to Pages and then to EPUB. Part 1 of 914 is long for a short story (about 6,000 words) but simple in terms of layout. There are no sections or chapter headings and I don’t care much about widows and orphans for something that won’t appear on paper until my entire short story collection is done. So, I dumped the 914 copy into Pages, worked out pagination and a header, and now I’m down to editing. If the resulting file is really cool with the wise algos at KDP then I’m cool, too.

I had some ideas about the cover but I really don’t want to spend too much time on it. 914 is only one of a collection of short stories I decided to publish by itself. Why not? There’s no downside and it seems wise to keep up with how KDP’s machinery works as well as I can. Enter ChatGPT. Chat is all in and came up with two promising ideas in the snap of the finger. After I made a few corrections Chat said:

Great choice! I’ll modify the image to include a classic blue-and-yellow California plate with a slightly obscured number while keeping the overall aesthetic intact. I’ll get that done and share it with you shortly. I’ll start working on the modifications now. Once it’s ready, I’ll share the updated version with you.

And then, nothing. When I reached out this morning to check progress Chat said:

Good morning! I haven’t started editing the image yet, but I’ll get to work on it now. I’ll update you as soon as it’s ready!

At least he’s positive and enthusiastic. Who knew working with AI would feel exactly the same as working with a living, breathing artist?

My short story 914 and the cover ChatGPT has been working on.

Who knows? Maybe the windows rolled up.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a Honda Civic Wagon from the mid to late 1980s. It’s it was slick and aero to the original Civic Wagon was square and boxy.

It is said that the Chrysler PT Cruiser was based on the Civic’s functionality though obviously not on the Honda’s looks.

That the Civic was a better and more practical car, there’s no doubt. And I will say no more about the PT Cruiser. It is best forgotten.

No, this is about the Civic Wagon I saw today. I wanted to take a photo of it but somehow it felt too intrusive.

It was, spectacular.

It was in Ventura and it was white. There was a single surfboard on a nicely done roof rack. I could see there had been some “modifications“ on the inside. The backseat was gone and the passenger seat had its seat back removed. I could see two long fishing poles going from the front to the back where a passenger, in a different time and place, might have sat.

I wondered to myself, who owns this?

Other than the roof rack, it appeared all original. The rims were steel Honda 13 inchers and the minuscule tires looked better suited to a golf cart.

I just had to see who owned it. I thought that I knew exactly what he looked like, but I had to see him for myself. And then there he was. He was probably a little younger than me but he managed to look older. He was lean and gray with a hat on his head and to-the-knees board shorts. He loaded something into the back before getting into the driver’s seat.

The little Honda, of course, started instantly and ran smoothly, like any Civic. As he pulled out of the driveway, I could see his rear license plate, a California plate, of course, was even more faded than the car’s paint.

Both owner and car were spectacularly OG and legit. Yes, there is a part of me that wishes I had taken a photo of the both of them. Who knows, he may have enjoyed the attention. On the other hand, it would feel, to me, like disturbing a wild animal in its natural habitat. Who knows? Maybe the windows, which were all rolled down, still rolled up? As if it matters.

They don’t make cars, or even many guys, like that anymore; full of purpose and devoid of pretense.

Who knows? Maybe the windows rolled up.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and the demise of the UJM

I’ve made no secret of how much I enjoy Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Drivers Club, the superb quarterly magazine published by Hagerty Insurance. There’s no doubt that HDC is the greatest contribution to society that any insurance company has ever made. You’d think that bringing both Zen and HDC together would be an especially happy day for me. Instead, the HDC piece (written by Matthew B. Crawford) was just another misunderstanding and misstatement of what Pirsig meant when he wrote about quality.

But that’s another subject…

You see, Crawford’s essay also included this photo of Pirsig’s 1966 CB 77 Honda Super Hawk, which is enshrined at the National Museum of American History along with his typewriter and an original manuscript of Zen. When I read this I was heartened by the museum’s recognition of Zen’s influence. Then I began to think about the Super Hawk itself. In Zen, Prisig wrote a lot of things about motorcycles. He admitted elsewhere that some of what he wrote was just plain wrong. I consider this kind of literary error the rough equivalent of Springsteen saying he knew very little about racing yet somehow understood the spiritual significance of the Chevy 396.

The humble Super Hawk was a Universal Japanese Motorcycle. I have no idea who coined this phrase. It refers to the seam that exist between sport bikes, cruisers and touring motorcycles. I know that the categories of motorcycles go on and on and subdivide but the point of UJMs is that they are able to do a lot of things, many of them quite well, without overtly identifying themselves as one thing or another. Harleys either harken to the past or a cartoonish future while contemporary sport bikes ignite the standard Ricky Racer fantasies in a certain kind of rider. While all of this posturing goes on, a good UJM is simply ready to be ridden.

The problem is the UJM is nearly dead. The irony is that I believe the lack of UJMs over the last decade and a half has reduced the number of new riders, which in turn has made life hard on motorcycle companies. Can the argument be made that the UJM is somehow the equivalent of the American middle class? It can, and that’s a part of what I’m saying here. Motorcycles have become so polarized that marketing to the middle has been forgotten even though the middle class of potential riders is still a viable group, something I’m not sure can still be said about the actual middle class. UJM, by being designed for the middle class of riders, welcomed actual riding over style. They were easy and generally safe to ride with their upright, comfy riding position and simple 2-cylinder engines. They have no fairings or cowls. Back in 1966 there was little plastic used other than the tail/brake light lens. Nothing was hidden from view or repair. A lot of people are stunned to learn how much work you can do on a UJM with nothing more than the factory tool kit that was hidden under the seat.

The Super Hawk is not a bad looking motorcycle. But, its soul resides in its functionality rather than its overt styling. The next time you see a new motorcycle on the road make note of its stying. In the same way that vape makers know that kiddie flavors help snag and keep young, new vapers, motorcycle companies know the way to buyer’s hearts goes through their eyes. I have a friend who has 22 motorcycles, most of them Hondas. One of his greatest challenges is finding replacement plastic panels of his many vintage sport bikes. Honda doesn’t make those parts any more and used ones are often in worse shape, cracked, stained, yellowed, than the part they’re meant to replace. A good UJM, like the CB77, can live and look pretty much as it did when it was new, decade after decade, and many have.

So, yes, this is an argument for the UJM. But, more than that it’s an argument for the mindset that made and purchased them in the past. In the end, it’s an argument for a riding mindset. Looking into the soul of the Honda CB77 Super Hawk simply makes me want to go for a ride.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and the demise of the UJM

Tennis thing is done!

I’m very excited that Tt is done and right on time. Alba Escayo is still working on the final version of the print cover but this gives you a good idea of how cool it will be when I am finally holding it in my hands (and, hopefully, you’re holding it in your hands, too).

So just what is Tennis thing?

That’s a fair question. Those of you who have read anything else I have ever written has never read anything about tennis. There’s good reason for this. Up until August of 2023 I had never played tennis. But, shortly after I started learning tennis I had an idea and Tennis thing was born. It’s part diary, part confessional, part study, part history and part analysis. Most writers seek to create works with at least an element of timelessness. But, the stated purpose of Tennis thing is to bring out everything I learn, come to believe and think about tennis; all of the experiences and emerging mindsets bracketed by a one year period. That’s going to bring a purposeful bit of discursiveness to Tennis thing. Who is to say whether Charles Broom, whom I interview later in Tennis thing, will still be playing professional tennis by the time you read this? The same goes for my observations about the other pros I’ve watched play, the tennis coaches I’ve observed and worked with, or even my own viability in tennis. I want the 365 day now of my tennis experience to trump everything. Is that a good idea? I think so but the proof is in the reading and that’s where you come in. 

Tennis thing is done!

Tennis thing: Imagine being Bobby Riggs

Imagine being Bobby Riggs at age 21 or 55…

Bobby Riggs during the quiet years

My latest book, Tennis thing is done at last. It’s a diary of sorts about my first year playing tennis. I’m going to be sharing chapters here over the next few months. Following this post is another chapter on Riggs. He is a fascinating figure to me.

In 1939, at 21, Bobby Riggs wins everything at Wimbledon. Singles… Doubles… Mixed doubles. Ever the gambler, Riggs maintained that by betting on himself he won $100,000. He was, obviously, a very different kind of amateur.

Bobby Riggs was born in 1918 and grew up in a relatively shitty working-class area of Los Angeles called Lincoln Heights. Long before his historic triumph at Wimbledon, he’d been branded a mere hustler and a gambler and was shunned by the amateur tennis scene at the Los Angeles Tennis Club and beyond.

From 1939 until 1972, he was totally off the tennis stage, such that it was back then, and living in complete anonymity. Of course, the Great Depression had something to do with this as did the fact that Riggs, like all of his contemporaries, were well-beyond their tennis primes by the time the Open Era of Tennis arrived in 1968.

Finally, Riggs or someone else, stumbled upon the battle of the sexes schtick that defined the rest of his life. I wonder who we have to thank for that? Like all schticks, it revived his fame though it did so at the cost of a great diminishment of the impact of the superb play during his earlier life. History, as it so happens, was usurped by notoriety. I wonder how that felt in Rigg’s heart of hearts? To be fair, it wasn’t like he consciously chose fame over his storied history as a player. He simply must have grabbed onto fame like the lifeline it was especially to bespectacled a tennis player in his mid-50s whom few had ever even heard of.

Something about Los Angeles helps to create hustlers and I wonder why that’s true. Trevino & Hogan would have gotten eaten alive out here. Sure, they could handle the heat and humidity of Texas but the glare and grit of Hollywood would have wilted them. Somehow, unlikely guys like Riggs & Pancho Gonzales thrived in Los Angeles, in their ways, at least for a while. 

Riggs and Billie Jean King in the early 70s during the Battle of the Sexes Era
Tennis thing: Imagine being Bobby Riggs

Google Bard: Starting out with a lie.

One of my first thoughts about AI is that any question based on human experience (or really any genuine experience) would have to result in either an inability to answer, think of the old reliable SciFi line, Insufficient Data, or a lie. So, early this morning I asked Google Bard my first question ever:

Me: Do you enjoy walks?

Bard not only answered in the affirmative but proceeded to give examples of why walking is enjoyable and detailed many of its benefits.

Me: Name five places you have walked in the last four days?

Bard then flatly stated that it had never walked.

Me: In light of your second answer how do you explain your first?

Then, Bard fell on its sword; admitting it was only an experiment at this point and actually apologized for its first answer.

Fascinating, but worrisome.

The first answer I ever got from AI was a lie.

Why should that be the case? It’s obviously an intentionality of programming which in an of itself is troubling. For AI programmers what benefit does the capacity or even the tendency to lie bring? Now, I can imagine the facility of AI lying when lying, as in the writing or fiction, is the goal. My guess is there could be problems further down the road and, because of the speed of AI development, those problems will likely arrive much sooner than we expect.

Not wanting to rudely focus on Bard’s lie I then asked questions asking it explain how Kant differed from utilitarianism believed about the good, what was the most prevalent form of online betting as well as a question asking Bard to explain the similarities between Socrates and Aquinas.

Interestingly, Bard was exceptionally good with the answers related to philosophy. I would say the answers were at least on the level of an undergraduate philosophy major. It was impressive. The answers on sports were less impressive and more generic with greater overtones of a Wikipedia article.

As I said, I asked my questions (prompts is Google’s preferred term) very early this morning. By the time I wanted to retrieve the conversation all that remained were the prompts themselves and the times of each. There may be a way to retrieve the original responses but I’ve not found it yet. Now that’s odd. If the system really learns from the exchanges it seems reasonable that both side of an exchange would be memorialized for both parties.

One of the best lessons I ever learned was that I don’t know can sometimes be both the best and most responsible answer. Is that too much for AI engineers to get? I hope not.

Note: It took me a while, but here are screen captures of three of my original questions and Bard’s answers.

Google Bard: Starting out with a lie.