Notes From the Practice - February 2025

Improvisation and Transition at 3825 24th St

Names and dates are changed to protect the anonymity of my clients, although permission to use their likeness is granted for 5% discount on final billing.

We're going to have Bagram Air Base, one of the biggest air bases in the world, one of the biggest runways, one of the most powerful runways, in the sense that it was very heavy, concrete and steel. You could carry about anything. You could land anything on those runways. We gave it up, and you know who's occupying it right now, China. China Biden gave it up. So we're going to keep that and we're going to have a withdrawal, and we're going to take our equipment.

-President Donald Trump

February 6th

She wants to know how to speak like Trump.

Her name is Amy. Lily white, curly brown hair, refined, as far as West Coast standards go. She's running for local office on a very beautiful platform that promises something and it helps that she's a very beautiful person who promises something every time she looks at you. Probably some commie shit.

Her friends tell her to speak from the heart, use that scrupulous inner voice that brought flowers at Stanford debate and a few articles on Slate.com, but foreign influence has made its way past Amy's flawless bone structure and into her incorruptible Chateau of a mind--now she wants to win and share the victory with prisoners of war, new brothers-in-arms, not just high command.

The New Amy sits at my desk having done her research, that being reading the first third or so of every Wall Street Journal and Economist article sent via push notification to her massive fucking iPhone before getting bored and opening twitter while mentally cursing herself out. But the results are incontrovertible. Trump is a winner and Trump has a style, and none of her friends "get" it, which she's starting to interpret as the signal it is. So she looks at me, last resort with private practice at 3825 24th St, and asks the question starting with her eyes and working her way down to her mouth.

"So how do I do it? You know, sound like him?"

I furrow my brow conspicuously and begin putting ink to my physical notepad, all of which creates a masterful illusion of intellectual process.

"I've thought about this," I say while fidgeting with my pen. "People say--not your people, of course, but some people--they say he's a bard. A generational talent. I agree, but I also think..."

I snap my fingers a few times. "It can be learned."

A few more stock assurances and I feel comfortable shaking hands and sending her out of my office with another meeting on the books--I'm giving myself a week. Long time. I suppose Amy's first step was escaping her suffocating progressive memeplex, but I have a suspicion that Trump's rhetoric is apolitical. There are clues:

February 8th

I'm listening to Freestyle by OsamaSon while on a run through Mission Dolores Park.

Bra-brand new stick, had to shout out my Slatt

P-p-p-percs and the X, no goin' back

S-SRT, all-black like bat

Laugh to the bank, it's another bag

Laugh to the bank, it's another bag

Flex on bitches, y'all goin' out bad

Flex on bitches, y'all goin' out bad

Ho-how many hoes wanna fuck Lil' O?

Fl-fly to LA, make the Hellcat float

Smoke ten woods in the back, straight dope

Te-ten freaky hoes and they play with they nose

Nigga tried to run up, got sent to the floor

Bitch, I'm whippin' that fast shit, yeah

We sippin' on that Act'

Lil' O, back to the slime, to the trap

And so on. I'm a huge fan. What does OsamaSon rap about? In chronological order,

• Guns

• Drugs

• Cars

• Money

• Casual sex

• Cars

• Drugs

• Casual sex

• Murder

• Cars

• Drugs

• Drugs

Plenty have noted this repetition before, then made the fatal mistake of chalking it up to a lack of depth--you can tell the criticism doesn't make sense before you can justify why--because it sounds Reddit--bad heuristic, avoid, but it works here--easy on the double-hyphen-em-dashes, dude, you're not a vibe--if it's good enough for Wes Anderson...

"Why do rappers just talk about money, drugs, sex, and guns? With the n-word thrown in there?"

There's a real answer that concerns primal repression, parallel cultures, id, but the more interesting question isn't why but how. How do you turn exactly four ideas into a compelling track? Ask the Redditor, they'll probably collapse into parody which is an admission of failure. Rappers may be lying, but they aren't joking. So here we have the question: how does one make simple ideas obvious enough to acknowledge, affirm, convince--but not so explicit as to create absurdity?

Here, let me rewrite Trump's Bagram Air Base rant:

Biden withdrew from Afghanistan, leaving the strategic Bagram Air Base in Chinese hands.

OsamaSon - Freestyle while we're at it:

I'm spending my fortune on drugs, guns, cars, and women, making me a dangerous and enviable person.

"Yeah, sounds dumb. There's a little thing called rhetoric. Take AP Lang."

No, that's like saying a restaurant is Michelin starred because "cooking." What can Trump and Lil O tap into that Amy can't?

I'm almost back at the house now. God, running is awful.

I repeat the question, three times in my head and once out loud before I'm interrupted by the B-plot.

The Question

A friend from my conference-attending days is sitting on my porch steps. His name is Darren, a tall Russian with black hair always fucked up by a barber in some unique way and stilted speech that betrays intention, not inelegance. About fifteen years ago he pivoted from seminal ML research to direct seminal research with the help of a wonderful wife who tolerated his autism and cherished his everything else. Their child, whom I had watched grow up through unfailing Christmas cards, was now approaching manhood.

In 2015 Darren sold some patents for a ludicrous amount and moved to a five-story home in Paris. We talked irregularly after that.

"Back in the States?" I ask, stifling some surprise.

"I think so," he responds in his self-effacing Russian accent. "I want Shane to go to an American college."

His son. Makes sense. "Well. It's great to see you, man. Come inside. Coffee or tea?" I say, groping my house keys.

I sit him at the kitchen table and save the run to my watch--there's a girl on Strava who needs to see it--throwing on a new shirt that sticks to my back like the old shirt while I'm at it. Darren seems stressed.

After catching up at the kitchen table and exchanging pleasantries about the job market, he lowers his voice. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Anything, man, what's on your mind? Free of charge," I say, leaning in.

He glances around, furtive. "Shane has always had a hard time with people, and the, how do you say it... depression. He's spending a lot of time alone and with a new therapist, and..." he pauses and raises his eyebrows. "He thinks he's a girl. A transgender."

I take a deep breath, preparing for an onslaught of assurances that no he doesn't want death camps for gay people and yes he voted for Kamala and yes he's a good person but none come. Of course, we're actual friends. Must be PTSD.

"You see why I came to you," he continues. "I trust my friends. But this is weighing on me... I won't burden you with the details. I just need a second opinion."

I push my coffee mug off to the side and place my elbows on the table. Shane is what, fourteen? It's like the draft, you go ahead and support it, but dammit I didn't think my number would be called!

The chance, though, the uncertainty is what makes it highly memetic. Psychiatry 101--no one wants to be diagnosed with depression. Everyone and their Uber driver has that shit. Bipolar? We're getting somewhere, we can build a story around this. Dysphoria? Holy shit. It's sexy. Sex is the only thing that can rival a cool disorder, sexiness-wise.

Speaking of, remember the very important distinction between gender identity and sexuality?¹ There are two separate and unrelated things you can mix and match during character customization, your gender (defined by how hot you are) and your sexuality (defined by who you find hot). These cannot touch, or else you become Ray Blanchard.

I'm still thinking about improv. I even paid $50 for Keith Johnstone, legendary improvisational theater teacher’s book, a business expense. "As soon as you put a ‘not’ into an assertion, a whole range of other possibilities opens out," Johnstone says. I'll have to negate, for the sake of Darren's son, the dichotomy between gender and sexuality, I guess.

"I'm gonna ask you a question."

"Go ahead," says Darren, a little puzzled by my long silence.

"Is Shane a virgin?"

"Shit. I think so? I was at his age."

"Take him to a prostitute."

"Really?"

"You can probably afford a good one, but don't go too large. No escorts. But yes, get him a prostitute. I can give you some numbers if you want."

"Any reason?"

"Yeah. But you should just do it."

I make sure he knows I'm not kidding, then we talk about the housing market for twenty or so minutes before I announce that I'm sweaty and disgusting from the run and should probably take a shower. I tell him to hit my phone with updates. He's a good father.

February 13th

A week has passed and I'm reclined in a cushioned wooden chair a few feet away from my desk. A knock on the door, forceful enough to make me doubt it's Amy's 5'3 frame before it cracks open and she peeks through. I wave her inside.

"I think I have something for you," I say. I hand her six flashcards, sharpie on card stock, reading PERCS, HOES, RACKS, HELLCAT, GLOCKS, and finally NIGGA. Her confusion turns to visible discomfort reading the final one.

"It's an improvisation game," I explain. "I'm gonna give you five minutes. You have to freestyle the entire time. If you stop we start over."

"I just... say these words?" she asks.

"Sort of. You can use whatever words you want as connectives, but these are the themes. You have to use all of them." We stare at each other for a second.

"Especially the last one," I confirm.

I can't explain it to her right now, maybe Keith Johnstone could--as an improv teacher he would have his students wander around and call items by the wrong name, point at a lamp and yell out TELEPHONE. Afterwards, "...everyone agrees there’s far more colour, and that the colours are more intense. Often the size and shape of the room will seem to have changed, too."

But the N-word is a very wrong word, not only is it not applicable here but we all know it's never applicable anywhere. And I'm not Keith Johnstone. And really? I'm fully late to the game, a few years ago you could start a whole career saying nigger paired with a 130+ IQ. Now I have to talk to socialists and trannies all day to pay the rent, trust, I know I was late. That's all irrelevant. This is an improv lesson.

I start the clock and watch her sputter over and over again. At first it's self-consciousness, which is to be expected when you're looking someone dead in the eye and saying something like "money came in I ain't know what to do, bitch on my dick and I made that two, twin bitches outta college like sigma mu" but very quickly the challenge becomes more technical.

Consistent pacing is hard but necessary, we're learning the easiest way to abort an attempt is by speeding into a bar and throwing off the rhythm. This is probably what they call "flow." She develops a few stock phrases to throw between clauses--at this point it's almost impossible not to bring up a Trump analogy, but I hold frame.

Two hours deep and she's up to forty-five seconds of straight freestyle. We pop some Vyvanse and doordash Chinese. I feel like the bald guy in Whiplash but instead of drumming or whatever I'm telling her "niggas is bitches" might sound better than "niggas are bitches."

By 2AM Amy gets it.

Eight hours of mental strife for five minutes of uninterrupted hood-inspired improv. She falls face-first into the couch and lies immobile while I stare at the pencils on my desk. I can't look away. They have a new hue, the shimmering overlay of sunbeam hitting your eyelashes. For the first time since Kindergarten the Ticonderoga #2 looks bigger, sharper, angrier. I'm afraid. Is this what Trump feels all the time?

"Amy," I say. "Amy... Ames..."

"What..." she mumbles while rolling off the couch and pulling strands of brunette hair out of her mouth.

"Go home. But write your own flashcards, like, I don't know, RENT CONTROL," I say. "Do what we did here."

"Don't call me Ames," she says.

February 21st

I'm listening to a recent episode of a local progressive podcast with Amy as a guest. Although I probably make up 1-2% of the listenership, excluding direct family, she's firing on all cylinders. It's hypnotizing. Whenever the host asks for clarification on a point Amy launches into another Yes And lullaby that brings you up, down, up, down, trending deeper into her world. I don't think I created a bard, I think one found me.

There's a good chance she'll find you, too.

February 25th

Some clerical work around the office needs to be done. Rent, parking, how to go about the homeless fent addict who occasionally stalks the sidewalk and scares the clients. A text from Darren comes in:

"Took your advice"

I drop everything. "How's Shane?"

"He won't talk to me"

Put the phone down, look out the window. Inconclusive.

---

1. If you don't, please DM me your home zip code so I can add it to my spreadsheet of acceptable locations to raise a child.