OMG, Wordle Is Like Bowling

In Some Games I Don’t Understand Purpose or Prestige

    I had a revelation a long time ago about Bowling. They had a TV show featuring “professional” bowlers. I watched a person who had perfect form, stance, and delivery — nothing quirky or erratic. He bowled all strikes, a perfect game. It was boring because he didn’t get to show-off his skills knocking down splits with very elaborate spin, speed, and technique for different splits. The hardest split is when the 7 and 10 pins are left standing after one throw. Each is in the back on opposite sides. There are no other pins near-by. So you have to throw real hard and just touch the edge of one pin in such a way that it bounces off the wall and flies across to knock over the other pin. But the thing is: if you’re really a professional and practice a lot, there is no excuse for NOT getting a perfect score. A given speed and form, spin or no spin, aimed correctly in the traditional pocket or off-target but with a violent spin and speed should always yield a strike. But, actually, I’d say that the 7-10 is really cheating because the idea of the game is to have pins in a chain-reaction knocking each other over — bouncing off the wall is not in the spirit of the game.
    Speaking about bouncing off the wall. I’d say that doing a statistical analysis of which letters are most commonly used in English for Wordle in order to choose a start word is too professional. The basic idea is to show your skill and literacy in the English language, at least as far as 5-letter words. So choosing a random or intuitive start word gives a chance for a 7-10 split, so-to-speak. But actually, I don’t think that essays with 5-letter words are that interesting. I think a mix of clean, sexy 4-letter words through to an 11-letter obfuscation is more likely to be an elegant 7-day wonder.
    Oh! I think we have two opportunities for psychology grad students to do studies. One would be to study whether there is a correlation between bad bowlers and people obsessed with Wordle. A second study would compare the success of three strategies:
    1. Psychics using their best intuition about what the next day’s word will be, and using it as the start word (or last word if successful). Or if clairvoyant, they could draw a picture. So, for example, if they draw a boat, you’d look for a 5-letter word for “boat” like YACHT.
    2. Best statistical choice of start word.
    3. Best choice-words from swearing bowlers (5-letter).

So what’s your best word for tomorrow?

P.S. with Spoiler for Wordle #446

P.S. I only just discovered this game early this morning ( Sept. 8 ) and I was totally confused about what I was supposed to do and why. I thought I was fooling around with some demo model or something. So, I thought, what the hell, I’ll take a chance with it, so I put in “fling”. No reason. Just wanted to see how it worked. So I got “L” in second position. Then I realized that everything else was wrong and eliminated. Then I thought about things that go with “L” as a second letter. That was very annoying — everything I thought of was not a 5-letter word like “always” which is 6, or alight(wrong by length and “i” is already eliminated. So I was mad because I was wasting time for nothing. Then, trying words starting with “SL” seemed possible. After more wasted time when I was about to give up, I entered “sleep”. With it revealed that “S” did not come first I eventually got to CLASS. That took so much time that I vowed never to do it again. Only after feeling totally humiliated did I realize that 3 tries is OK: fling, sleep, class.

Quirky From Afar

[A super-star singer and suicide]

From the surf of many dawns, listen
my dear favorite flighty bird:
I’m sadly waving like an ocean

on your feathers; I
wonder why there’s no endless splash.

That water I knew seems shallow
but the music always seems cool.

Oh sorrow-drowning girl I
wonder why you die, why you
shed your feathers in the waves.

So many young song birds crash
and fame’s not much of a crumb.

Guess my fantasy, my love
is a bye-bye, a
pretty song bird up a stage tree
who’s never seen an ocean wave hi.

Oh, my love, my sad lady
sitting in the catbird seat
wonder why you’ve
never seen the sunrise smile.

To me, I’ve
heard a mournful lady, and
wonder why you’d die

’cause flattering and fluttering
fan cats purr and fan chicks peep

and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, even though
you make showy new arrangements,
make a scene without a melody, upscale
variations and inversions on the sorrow sparrow.

I wonder why
you’ve never seen an ocean wave hi,
and oh God

I mourn all fallen
song birds at dawn
with oatmeal, but sometimes

lunch is best
at breakfast time
with appetizers at sunrise
by the ocean.

Birdies in the dawn
have worldly songs I know,
choreographed for the video.

The trouble with the quirky world
is few singers will have an
elegant soup for breakfast,
will not take my silly advice for
the morning lunch of desire

pizza with me, and
anchovies for seagulls
opus no. 4, symphony 2,

won’t minister to the minestrone
and are left with a cereal for the showy birds.

I make soup for breakfast sometimes
just to watch the mist fog up the
window glass of dawn
where nothing can be a scene.

I have a showy tablespoon
with a fancy engraved handle
for my lonely soups, for sometimes
it’s better to sip carefully than
be scorched with hot sorrow

better to look out the window at
feathers and upper blue cool dawn,
better not listen to orange songs
and be juiced.

Screeching birds in the dawn
have angry tears in the rain, secretly
curling up with a soupy turmoil
a noodle that no one is willing
to unravel, and many unwilling
to spoon out comfort to them.

These are the famous agonies
I think I know, though
being nobody of renown,
such unseen sorrow has
no publicity value, has no way
to monetize a cry, can not
get this tune on the charts, but
you have a beautiful way
to monetize sorrow.

Seen you young beautiful girl
who might have been near
where I could have praised
your feathers of flight
your perfume of happiness,
could have spooned out
a dollop and a dabble in magic
like I once thought I had.

I’ve seen your dance
in the bubble and cage
of the obscene show-biz scene
seen many be too serious about trivia.

Oh magnificent party girl, don’t die young again,
young girl with the band and groupies.

If you’d’ leave your toady agent and her dreams
and let me be a non-toxic chatty drug, ha
I’d sing nonsense with you
because I am profoundly silly, and
I wonder why you’d die even with the
praise of your fans, and no I’m not
exactly a fan, no not exactly, no it’s

just that I’ve heard you scream famously
and I’ve screamed alone, because
I can’t seem to compose the song of my heart
as well as you who is talented, lonely, and sad.

Maybe I could’ve been your odd high
the quirky no one who’s not hip
and hears your secret silent cries
that fans and agents never hear
when they feed you any drug of the day
you think you want, and if in a haze
you keep on chirping
I’ll pray for you, because
you are so beautiful and
of course, sexy, but
that’s not the point
though they say it is.

Oh hey, I know about loneliness
and when one dies young, and
I will wonder why talent doesn’t matter
and why I never met you.

Can’t say if I would have mattered at all
can’t say if I would have been more than a quirk
or a mere jerk, but you will die young probably, and
maybe I would have given you a precious hour…

an hour is all I need
to love being with a song
a rhapsody in grace
so blue toned, but I’ve

seen you on
a stage tree perch
in the catbird seat

and though you
let the fawning cats meow
you can not requite the clawing.

Still I wonder why oh
beautiful girls die young
though they can sing
sorrowful chirps and dirges on key

And I wonder if
I could have sailed to you
an admirer in a crow’s nest
who loved you more than a fan

Groundhog Day Scenarios Gone Plural

    The premise of the “Ground Hog Day” movie (Screenplay: Harold Ramis, Danny Rubin) is based on the book, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft, by Friedrich Nietzsche, published in 1882. In 1882, fröhliche had the meaning happy or joyful as we know it now so “The Joyous Science.”
    So a life without a purpose is like “Groundhog Day with ageing.” The day repeats but it gets worse. It’s the same tedium repeated without learning enough to escape. The German title used to be a common expression meaning the skill needed to write poetry. So all the literal translations have been wrong according to Wikipedia*
    I recently saw a movie on TV, I think it was called “Happy Death Day” where a girl keeps getting murdered on the same day, but when she solves her murder and learns her lessons the days continue, and everything turns out happily-ever-after. Wow what a bunch of wise and intelligent people all these movie characters are. Too bad we can’t write a script and make it real. Unfortuneatly, even if we do write it, we don’t get to star in it.

* Nietzsche’s Book

Where’s there a Good Latin Scholar When You Need One? Let the aphorist beware because “damnant quod non intelligunt”

I wanted to come up with a make-believe “famous” Latin saying to add to or introduce a satirical essay. So I tried various permutations of English to Latin on Google but none of the Latin translations back to English made any sense. What I wanted to say in English was:
      “Often the satirist has a better nose for truth than the seller of sagacity.”
   A direct translation of this into Latin produced a gibberish Latin phrase which when translated into English was scambled eggs of whiplash.

I changed the English challenge sentence a billion times and finally came up with this:
Non erit satura est scriptor nasus quando emptore magis est vera sapientia, quam venditor.
There will be a satire’s nose when the buyer is true wisdom rather than the seller.

Does anyone know how to do the original sentence?

Now what?

This has been a colossal failure. I suppose “Gavin Newsom Recalls a Play 2” a.k.a “Pagliaccio in a Parking Lot” in various drafts is now dead. At a minimum to avoid confusion, I guess, I should start erasing all the versions except one. And then, maybe, I should use a different outer tease title or something. I don’t know. There’s been a total collapse of views. Or maybe I should give up altogether. I suppose it’s actually always been futile — I mean, except for my one loyal fan, I get no comments and no clicks on any links. Maybe there’s a way to fix one of my abstract pictures so that it’s adequate (I can’t really draw — sometimes I can find something in a photo and work with it).

Saving Shakespeare

You told me to study Shakespeare, and I’ve
been really trying, but it’s archaic, and I
don’t know why I would love you more
if you were an ancient poem, were
exactly an iambic pentameter;
oh ancient god don’t make my love
worship you because
I love her more than
you could ever know, and
ancient or not, I will
draw my sword and slay you
if you should ever harm my greatest love.

Yes, I am determined to be powerful,
and I will find whatever secret I need
to save my Love.

My Dearest love,
even if it’s the last thing I do
I will rhyme your name into my
last and every song so
there will be so many echoes that
forever everyone will love you
like I do

Love Inheres a Romance True (Revision X)

[I lost track of how many drafts I’ve made. I don’t know if this is getting better or worse]

A free spirit loves everyone,
not one romance.

Leora had the light to be a day
to be of warmth, of wisdom
illuminating in humor’s dance
a candid banter to laugh
to play at night one lightly

But she’s a brilliant explorer now
who leaves to leaf through
dreams and dilemmas blue
who might have stayed
the day, the night too

In Leora’s magic night
I felt a deft embrace
of luscious touch, and
then in light had left, but

Her love inheres the day:
the wind and the birds
tweak her sayings for
philosophy nested away

Yet her love inheres the day:
she is warmth and
her light is the delight that
inheres my laugh when

remembering her yet
on unforgiving nights

How the winds are calm in frights
and the birds do die if a song is away
and the sun won’t rise inherently in me
because I was one of many she loved
and I had never really had her at all.

Marks and Angles

An old word on a path of a thousand miles
begins with a single faux pas
said Laozi of the Dao De Jing

More than a two-step to completion
of propaganda and subversion —
it takes a bat and a virus to conquer.

Peace on the road
was to be woven
in friendships for
fair weather, a shrewd
bounty before fool’s storms,

in malice from unforeseen red feuds,
Jane’s tale was to fail in bans soon.

The Wuhan plague
brought chaos, and

when all the local stores failed
the aristocrats pro temp bought them
and Jane’s requiem began to play

Jane had gone batty
over the Summer:

older daughter home,
younger daughter beaten
dead by the gangs, and

she had been annoyed by
the constant chants on the speakers
of the Chinese language lessons
needed to earn guanxi like “1984”.

She had thought
fall would be better:
the eldest jumped for joy
when she was accepted
to a tuition-free school
as good as Harvard, a
part of the Red Ivy League, funded by
the Confucius Friendship Society

Pandora’s box
had bats in it for Jane.

Her decline was sealed
the day the grocery store
checked her credit score:
The princeling who owned it
refused to serve her because
she didn’t have enough caution
in social credits for conformity:
a black mark for twice not
wearing a red mask and
not passing her basic
Chinese language test.

All the stores had been
taken over by the princelings
after the coup d’etat, so
Jane had to walk far away
for an Amerigo Supermarket.

Walking was a complicated fate:
she had to hang with
the ‘hood committee
to negotiate with the gangs
just for a safe passage.
(The citizen’s police
had no guns anymore)

Sitting at the window
she had a heart attack
when protestors
burned the Constitution
in a surise red fire
by the dawn’s early light

Proudly, great progress
was hailed without bullets
on the conveyance belt
and roadway to hell.

Grandma Knows a Spy from Wuhan

Blacklight In Wuhan (Draft 1)

In the clearings
hauntings inhere
dear unfinished things

They’ve finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon

Grandma’s voice
screams in the night;
her pen pal is lost, yes

Grandma is dead.
her hair dresser too–
by video two funerals
and the autopsy is done
no toxins of the ordinary kind.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew her faux pas cinema
— been odd times.

Grandma had a Chinese pen pal
a foreign medical student
passing the USMLE
passing the TOEFL and everything.
Her friend’s now a doctor
now a scientist.

Many times
Grandma was down in a funk:
Something about the Great Depression,
the War and the slaughter again.

So many screams in the night:
“Where is my Wuhan doctor girl?”

There is so much beauty yet
in the quixotic world: the
flowers and designs
on the body bags.

Grandma told us
days never come lightly
when the night overwhelms
before the elegant cry

Such beauty in a sad world
my Grandma always said, is
just decoration, and
she favored flower designs
on chic shopping bags

Let the designers rise to the task
to make pretty body bags
to rise to praise, and yea
by the dawn’s surly knights
oh hey can you see our deeds
in the corona of the Sun
particles of sunset and doom.

Everyone misses Grandma.
Many knew of her, some
knew her. It’s been odd times.

Grandma told wild stories.
Very entertaining. She was
not distant ever
regardless of rules

Grandma stabbed herself to death
with a scissor in a beauty salon, and
the owner was shot to death while
grabbing a policeman’s gun.
It’s the usual.

Grandma left me
a stack of papers
from the pal, now a doctor.
Grandma loved
her dear mystery friend
from Wuhan. She claimed
her friend worked in a laboratory.

I have the correspondence
written in Chinese, and
the blacklight she had
asked me to buy for her.

The letters came slowly
sometimes through Hong Kong
and Singapore, but sometimes
through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Grandma was fond
of her Wuhan girl
as she called her.

Just before her death
she reminded me that
it wasn’t important
to read the beautiful
Chinese calligraphy
because it was unimportant

It was important to read
the invisible secret writing
written between the lines.

Read in the dark
she had said.

New letters continued
to come from the
missing Wuhan girl.

I read them in the dark
with the Black Light.

Apparently, Wuhan girl is
patient zero for the world, and
they are hunting for her

They finished cleaning
the blood off the floor of the salon