For all the media that’s headed out the door, there’s still a steady influx of fresh content, though the tonnage has shrunk to far more manageable levels. I’d even call it a thoughtful flow, if it weren’t for some questionable choices in the lineup. Sidebar, whenever I link to my own shit, it’s mainly so I can keep track of running topics. There’s no expectation that you’ll re-read anything–heaven help you if you do–and were I savvier, I’d properly tag my posts, but I don’t subscribe to such Internet witchcraft.
Television programming has been a mixed bag lately. Bones and Fringe continue to deliver, and when lighter fare is needed, Modern Family ably compensates for whatever new deficiencies Office and Sunny inflict on a weekly basis. I’ve also turned to movies to supplement my media intake. The Social Network was excellent, yet another testament to how David Fincher can make two-plus hours feel so compact. I’ve also picked up new vocabulary from The Other Guys. Let’s just say that the next time I volunteer at a soup kitchen, I will need to verify time, place, and activity before going. The Bourne trilogy has also been called upon for another run.
My poorer media choices revolve around the Xbox. Dead Space 2 is out. It may sound familiar because of the classy advertisement that’s been making its way through the airwaves. Horror generally raises my stress level. I’m subjected, for lack of a better phrase, to psychic bruising every time I consume it, and still I’m drawn to the series. I’m even replaying the first one, simply so I can appreciate any back references in the sequel. It’s sick, frankly. That said, while I’m fully aware of my choices, I’m not entirely sure what those moms in the commercial were thinking. Did they simply wander into the wrong room? What kind of focus group were they expecting? Did the door not have a placard on it with Dead Space 2? Perhaps they were tricked into this situation, told their opinions were needed for an unspecified video game, and by the time they realized what was happening, it was, like, “No, I don’t think this is the one where you dance in front of the teevee. I don’t see any dancing at all, in fact.”
After carefully considering all the venues in which I could offload my quality merchandise, I’ve settled on eBay, though not without some serious reservations. For a brief stretch, Craigslist was in pole position, until I realized the selling experience would essentially mirror eBay, except you risk being mugged or, even worse, having to meet your customers in person. I did my due diligence. Amazon, Half, GameGavel–all had their pros and cons, but none could hold a candle to the scale or familiarity of eBay. My buying experiences in the marketplace have been largely fine. But far on the other side of the table, the story reads a little differently for sellers.
eBay’s general policy for merchants is to grease up. Back in the day, you could request your buyers pay via traditional means, such as check or money order. These offline avenues have since been barricaded in favor of Paypal. Oh, I’ve read the horror stories, probably all of them, and I’ve concluded that linking to your bank account effectively grants Paypal carte blanche to shake you down at the buyer’s whim. Say Joe Bidder wins your item, receives it, and then decides he should’ve paid rent first. Once he files that dispute, his refund’s likely to be extracted from your checking account before you can get a word in edgewise.
Chances are that once I sell enough items, probability will overtake me and I will encounter le douche. That’s not a French restaurant, by the way. Now, until that day arrives, the plan is to screen my bidders carefully and–this is key–set up a separate checking account to minimize the damage, in case things ever go sideways. That’s precisely what I did during lunchtime today. I took the elevator down to the lobby, stepped into my bank, and, after they plied me with refreshments and remembered not to call me “Mr. Wu,” I held forth on my plight in vivid detail.
For some reason, Charon comes to mind whenever I think about Paypal. I don’t think it’s a stretch, either, because Paypal really is the sole way to cross into eBay, only instead of the ferryman of lore, you’re dealing with his toolbag of a cousin. Like, you’ll hand the dude a coin, and then find three more taken from your wallet because, well, port authority said.
Even after I’ve reconstructed my paddle, fashioned it to my exact specifications, there will be more work to do. Indeed, it may be the most difficult leg of this journey yet. I’m currently at a juncture in ping-pong where, unlike golf, the antiquated equipment is actually inconveniencing my game. But once I’ve caught up with all the advancements of 21st century table tennis rubbersmithing, I’ll be back in a position where, much like golf, my game will inconvenience my paddle.
I know precisely where I’m deficient. My game is largely reactive. Cripplingly defensive, in other words. I have pretty good table sense–I’d call it court sense, if doing so didn’t feel completely ridiculous–but it’s usually squandered on one deflection after the next. I need to seize the initiative, press the flow, and dictate each match on my terms. Getting to that point is going to take a lot of elbow grease, though.
Here’s how I’m going to do it. Five months into the office scene, I’ve noticed how every contender boasts a trademark move, be it a cunning serve or a brutal smash or some unique spin. I’d like to pick these up by asking the relevant authors, plain and simple, and assuming instruction is forthcoming, I’ll be able to collect one move at a time. This is really just my favorite skill acquisition framework, made public and shameless and–with an actual ping-pong league on the horizon–entirely necessary.