Tag: Books

I’m Now a Pirate

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To guard your blind side, see it coming. You can’t. That’s the trouble.

At the Saturday market, the fruit vendor asked what happened to my eye. Surgery yesterday, I said. Then: “I’m now a pirate.”

He laughed. He handed us a banana and a peach for free, then offered a pair of melons for 5 euros. I said no. He said 3 euros. I said no. He said the French version of “come on.” I thanked him and said no. (I have one working eye, not one working braincell.) 

He totaled it up. Partner counted out the change. (We play a game when we’re about to leave a country. It’s called spend all the fiddly little coins. Yesterday I paid my rent in cents.) He held out his hand. I dropped the coins three inches closer than where his palm actually was. He tutted. “It’s new,” I said, about the eye.

Depth perception. One of the main benefits of binocular vision.

The costs since have been small and physical and easy to laugh at. I have to put medicated drops in the bad eye 3 times a day, and I can’t see well enough out of it to aim, so the eye can’t guide the drops that fix the eye. Tonight Paris Saint-Germain won, and Étampes spilled into the street to celebrate, and I caught about half of it. Partner walks on my left now so I can see her. I poked myself in the eye briefly when blowing my nose. None of it bothers me for more than a few seconds. The eye will heal in a week or two. I agreed to this difficulty. 

At the bakery, Partner said, “He’s staring at you. You should say some pirate things.” Or that’s what she told me later. She talks fast, and I don’t always catch her, so in the moment I missed it and bought my bread. 

Outside, she said, “How come you didn’t make pirate noises for the little boy? He’d have loved that.”

“Little boy?”

She laughed. “He was on your right side.”

That’s the blind one.

The drops, the coins, the half a celebration, the side she walks on now: Unlike things on my right side, I saw those coming. The boy, I didn’t see at all. A kid was standing right there, wanting a gift I was eager to share, and he’d picked the single spot where I’ve got nothing. I only know because Partner saw it and told me. 

Guess I’ll need a parrot for that shoulder. 

Budapest: Scams and Porn

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How porn, scams, and power fantasies feed each other

[Day 2 in Budapest. Written from a downtown bar.] 

In Budapest, there’s a classic tourist scam. The kind of scam that’s so common you learn about it from Rick Steves. A beautiful woman approaches you on the street, flirts, suggests a drink at a bar she knows. You go. The menu has no prices. You order a round. The bill comes: $500 for two glasses of champagne. A very large man near the door makes clear: this is not negotiable.

The scam works because the mark doesn’t expect it. He thinks he’s lucky. 

And the reason he thinks he’s lucky traces back through Soviet history.  

Here’s the loop, roughly:

1. Post-communist economic disparity creates a visible gap between local women and Western tourists with money.

2. Sex tourism follows: Guys pay for sex.

3. Some of them film it. A whole genre emerges — the “meet a girl on the street in Eastern Europe” category. The premise: “this just happens! You walk around Prague or Budapest, and beautiful woman will come home with you.”[1] 

4. Enough men absorb this trope from porn as a realistic model of how Eastern Europe works. They arrive pre-loaded with the belief that beautiful women approach foreign men on the street.

5. Scam operators notice this. They don’t even need to be aware of the porn. They just notice this story works. A woman approaches, flirts, leads the guy to the scam bar. He doesn’t question it because it matches the script he’s already running.

The porn normalized the scenario. The scam monetized the same scenario from another direction.

I like comedy, so let’s look at this from a recursive, self-parody perspective: 

Once enough guys get scammed and tell the story online (forums, Reddit, travel warnings, the Rick Steves travel guide) the scam itself becomes a known thing. It enters the cultural awareness. And what does entertainment do with any known phenomenon?

It digests it back into fantasy.

My predicted next genre: porn where the guy gets taken to the clip joint, sees what’s happening, fights the bouncer, and the girl is so impressed she actually sleeps with him. The humiliation gets rewritten as a test. The mark becomes the hero. The audience gets to engage with the anxiety of being scammed abroad, but instead of worry it gets transmuted into a power fantasy.

Reality creates the fantasy. The fantasy creates the vulnerability. The vulnerability creates the scam. The scam gets folded back into the fantasy. Someday maybe people will want to be scammed by the beautiful woman as they’ve gotten off on it so many times. 

This structure isn’t unique to Budapest. Casting couch porn followed the same loop. The real casting couch was an open Hollywood secret (producers leveraging access for sex). Exploitative, coercive, career-ending for the women who refused. Then the genre emerged: the “audition” scenario, repackaged as the fantasy itself. The power imbalance turned from a social bug into the pornographic product.

The pattern repeats because it works. A real dynamic involving real exploitation gets turned into content, and fed back to an audience that is now one step further from seeing the thing clearly. Nobody plans the full loop. Each actor in the chain is just optimizing locally — the pornographer for clicks, the scammer for cash, the next pornographer for a fresher scenario. The loop runs itself.

The economic loop feels no different from the gentrification loop seen in Brooklyn, Berlin, and Budapest: down-trodden area → cheap real estate for bars or clubs → yuppies who want to be near artists → cafes → expensive real estate 

It’s an economic loop. You’re living inside thousands every day. Try not to get fucked by them. [1] Budapest actually produces a lot of porn, and this “meet a strange woman and bring her home” is a common genre, featuring the beautiful city architecture

Consistency, Consistency, Consstncy

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“Every Day” means Every Day! means ¿Every Day? 

I have a motto: Seven days a week means seven days a week. (Except when it means five.) 

I have three categories of “Every day”: 

1. Religious Commitments 

If lightning struck me and I awoke in the emergency room, I would still write every day. 

The commitment is inflexible. The details are wishy-washy. Sometimes “day” stretches into the early morning hours of the next day. Sometimes “writing” means a scribbled sentence onto a post-it note reading “I don’t want to write today.” When I was writing two pages per day for my first book, many days started with writing “I don’t want to write today… I don’t want to write today…” until I got in the groove and shifted to the topic. Most days, I pen and publish a brief essay. 

When I injured my back, I performed a prenatal core workout as my daily 5 minute abs. 

This “every day” works because the requirement is rigid but the goal very easy. 

2. When 7 = 6 

    I lift weights every day. 

    (Except for ~2 days per week.) 

    I tell myself I lift weights every day. Sometimes this approach is honest: Over the last two months, some weeks, I lifted 7/7 days. 

    The issue: Weightlifting relies on unpredictable activities. How well will I sleep? How recovered will I be? Sometimes, I need a rest day to prevent injury. 

    7 days per week therefore becomes 6. But if I aimed for 6, 6 becomes 5… and 5 becomes 4…  and very soon I’m watching cartoons with Dorito dust on my chest

    This “every day” works because the requirement is flexible but the goal very intense. 

    3. The Failure of Flossing 

    Jeff Foxworthy’s dentist asks, “Have you been flossing every day?” 

    “Not every day…” Jeff admits. “The last time I flossed… You did it!” 

    Most people don’t floss. I don’t brush my teeth in the morning. (I only brush at night.) 

    Turns out I brush in the morning every day the way most people floss every day. 

    Default to Yes

    I experience a large mental cost oscillating about action. 

    Writing 5 days per week is somehow more difficult than 7. If I give myself an out, I consider and negotiate. Instead, I commit and know my category. 

    Seven days a week means seven days a week.

    (Except for the contexts where it should mean five.)

    (Or zero.)

    (Or negative one.) 

    The $10.125 Sandwich

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    The goal of the game is selling sandwiches. You sell sandwiches by making it fun. You make it fun by taking fun seriously. 

    I bought a sandwich today. The sandwich shop offers a cute promotion: from 3 to 6 pm, if you call a coin flip correctly, you pay half price. 

    It’s fun, it’s attractive, and they net 75% of the normal retail price. 

    But the experience is broken. 

    First, you don’t pay until after the flip. So I, who sees loopholes without trying, am instantly aware that I could order the sandwich, flip the coin, and walk if it lands the wrong way. How would they even develop a process to stop me? I pay full price and then the flip determines my refund?

    Second, the coin. It’s some B.S. commemorative coin — one side is the restaurant name, the other the logo — where neither side is obviously heads or tails. So the cashier has to tell me, and presumably every patron between 3 and 6pm, “this side is heads.”

    Third, the flip. Less a flip than a half-spin. He calls it whichever way it lands in his hand. Not even the catches-it-and-slaps-it-onto-the-back-of-his-other-hand move that’s standard on any schoolyard.

    What happened to the good ol’ quarter?
    Why are we making this more complicated than it needs to be?
    Why can’t the customer flip the coin onto the counter, where it would be easily visible?
    Why not call the sides “name” and “logo” instead of heads and tails? 

    The sandwich was good. It satisfied my basic need – fuel after the gym so I’m not grumpy. It wasn’t $13.50 good. It’s definitely $6.75 good. It’s probably also $10.125 good (the expected cost). 

    Here’s what bugs me. The promotion could have been theater. A customer walks in, gets drawn into a small moment of drama, calls it in the air, wins or loses, laughs either way, tells their friends. Instead it’s a transaction with a dice roll bolted on. The cashier is phoning it in. The coin is wrong. The flip is wrong. The ritual isn’t a ritual.

    The fun version costs them nothing. Same margin, same coin-flip odds, same sandwich. Just a real coin, a real flip, and a cashier who understands he’s running a tiny game show for thirty seconds a day. 

    And sure, if there are people in line behind me, by all means do the quick version. But the main reason they’re doing this promotion at all is because they don’t have many patrons between 3 and 6pm. 

    If they fixed it, I’d come back. If they fixed it, I’d bring people. The half-time half-price is nice; the experience could also have value. 

    Also, I called heads and it landed tails. 

    Content is what you know. Method is how you think. 

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    To play well, you must find the method. To find the method… well, that’s part of the method. 

    Today I met a cabinet rep who knew, off the top of his head, that the tambour door came in 24, 28, 32, and 36 inches. That’s the content, and, as one data point, it’s not yet impressive. But the fact he can rattle off seemingly every dimensional trait for multiple different cabinet styles and product lines across multiple brands? That’s beautiful. It’s like showing a chess master the opening few moves of a historical game and seeing him place it precisely. 

    But content you can find in a book. Trivia is by its nature trivial. What you can’t find in a book: method. 

    Repeatedly, he heard our proposals and improved them. He looked at a 79-inch space, listened to what I’d planned (two 36-inch cabinets, side by side), and proposed: a 30 and two 24s. Total: 78 inches. Gives you 6 more inches of cabinets. 

    After he did this a few times, I isolated his method: 1) Map the dimensions of the space. 2) Subtract standard sizes from total length. 3) Find the combination that leaves the minimum remainder.

    The content — knowing the sizes — is the raw material. The methods — including “subtract to find the minimum remainder” — is what makes him good at it.

    A chess-master friend of mine thrives in certainty but buckles when he arrives at probabilities. Since I grew up playing poker, I rarely see certainty but am comfortable making positive-expected value bets. These games teach different skills. For him, it’s the detailed, factual, calculation-heavy process of walking a specific position to its end. (It’s no coincidence he’s now in law). For me, it’s staying afloat until I see a spot with an edge; then pouncing on it. 

    Having spent many years ghostwriting for top Silicon Valley founders, executives, and investors. I’ve enjoyed living in brilliant minds. One thing I’ve noticed: 

    Experts can usually describe their content in detail, but most can’t articulate their method. A surgeon could tell you every action in her procedure. But she might not know that she’s left-handed and therefore angles every screw slightly off from where a right-handed surgeon would. That left-leaning screw is just something she does, and she might even recognize it as hers. But ultimately she knows more than she can say. 

    Most people hire for content. What do you know? What’s on your resume?
    Some hire for good method, assuming you’ll acquire content fast.

    The worst are the ones who confuse content for method. They’ve memorized the right answers for the common cases. But they can’t handle a new scenario. 

    Yesterday’s post in fewer words: 

    • Pattern-matchers have content without method.
    • Scientists have method that generates content. 
    • When I’m hiring a doctor, I want a scientist. 

    The cabinet rep impressed me with his content. But we also shouldn’t ignore some of the other points of his method. “You sure you don’t want a panel on the side of the fridge? You’re gonna want to look at the wires and the side of fridge every time you enter your kitchen for the rest of your life?” 

    The honest answer? Yeah, I’m game.

    On Occupation (April 8 2026)

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    Not the military type. 

    My recent activity has all but concluded.
    Six months of hiring.
    An important job.
    Hiring, negotiating, structuring, whittling.
    And now I have a contractor. 

    My plans are submitted.
    So, may god’s love be with me! 

    Now,
    I want a job. 

    Sure, I spent 6 months working on key life projects (purchasing an apartment; hiring contractors).
    Now I’d like to return to work.
    It’s a weird experience for someone who
    has only ever run his own business.
    (Sure, there was a year-long stint as chief of staff to the ceo of a tech company.) 

    I’ve only ever gotten jobs from referrals.
    And most of those are self-directed. 

    Now,
    I seek something stable.
    I’d love a remote job with clear deliverables.
    What are my skills? 

    1. Writing. Blog posts, website copy. I’ve done lots of reliable work here. (Earlier this decade, I was the most sought-after ghostwriter in the Bay Area tech scene!)  
    2. Fundraising pitches. I’ve raised $1.5M for one startup and $800k for another, both by rewriting and workshopping their pitches (and the former by actually doing the pitching). 
    3. CEO whispering. I navigated one company through a cofounder split-up, served as chief of staff to the ceo of another, and helped a third rewrite her sales contracts and sales calls, tripling her ARR in 2 months. 

    What else? 

    • I do good work, turn it in on time, and my coworkers generally like me. That’s worth something too. 

    I feel this odd sense of loss. Of distance from myself. As though I wish for this situation – this need for occupation – to be solved. But also, a reticence to exist in a box where it is solved. 

    I’d enjoy this occupation because the rest of my activity is more lax.
    The books I’ve written; the apartment I’m remodeling; the weird medical and legal systems I’m working through: all would be improved if my head were also often somewhere else. 

    And also, it would be nice if that somewhere else also gave me money. 

    An Art (Apr 4 2026) 

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    An off-off-off-off Broadway day. 

    I attended an art today. A very Burning Man-ish art. Listen: 

    You knock on a door in Brooklyn. A clown-not-yet-in-costume opens the door. She tells you the show starts when she dons her hat. But now, she is hatless, so the show must not have started. 

    You introduce yourself to the other attendees. There are five of you: you, your partner, a couple (she’s from Bulgaria; he’s a stand up comedian), and a woman of about 80 who formerly performed voiceover work for the Muppets. 

    The host dons her hat. She provides you a passport and divides you into groups: you’re with the Bulgarian and Muppet; your partner is with the Standup. The host introduces you to the town: five stations, each themed around a custom topic for you. (Mine was Consistency & Stability.) 

    You visit the five stations in sequence. At one, you marry your theme. At another, your theme writes you a letter.
    At the beginning of the experience, you ask yourself, “Why am I here?” You imagine yourself leaving to go to a park. Getting some much-needed rest away from the world. 

    At one station, the Muppet tells you of how she was engaged to a man in L.A. A beautiful man, an incredible musician. But he had a nervous breakdown and moved back to Las Vegas. And she moved back home to New York City. And had she not done that, she would never have been the in-demand voice over artist she ended up being. 

    By the end, you have found in this activity a bit of solace, peace, and comfort.
    You met some people who enjoyed the time they passed with you.
    You learned a small bit experientially.
    If you generally had positive memories, you would have positive ones here too.

    After the experience, the clown host mentions she previously studied in France, under the same teacher who founded the clown school you attended.
    She says she left his instruction back in the early 2000s, thinking he had failed her. Only after he died did she recognize he had been right all along.
    You wonder how much that’s true for you too.
    You wonder where you have to go. 

    An hour later, you see a dear friend for a bite of dim sum.
    It’s his birthday. It’s nice to laugh.
    You wander toward home, a bit colder than expected.
    You check your texts, and find a thank you from the clown host. She says that your conversation helped her. She may return to that school. 

    You arrive home. 

    And all this time,
    still,
    throughout the entire day,
    you wonder
    why you feel
    so utterly
    alone. 

    Sneaky Share Cake (Mar 15 2026)

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    In which Partner uses Birthday as Gift for Others 🤫

    On Friday I surreptitiously ran the 3.5 miles round-trip to Costco to order Partner a full-size Costco cake. The chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, with additional frosting inside the cake instead of the normal mousse because it’s Partner’s favorite (the frosting is her favorite part!).
    Today, we acquired the cake from Costco. Partner was surprised: We spend almost all of our time together. When did I have time to order it? 

    Partner ate some frosting and squirreled a few additional pieces for later. 

    Then, armed with a stack of paper plates and a bag of plastic forks, we started a walk around the Harlem Meer (a pond at the northeastern tip of Central Park).
    At the beginning of the loop, we had 2/3rds of a Costco cake.
    At the end of the loop, we had none. 

    Highlights include: 

    1. Six teenage boys with fishing poles. Five of them want cake. One comments how fortuitous it is that we stumble upon teenage boys when we have extra cake. Another teaches Partner that a fishing license is $25 but no one checks if you have one. 
    2. Two stoner early-twenties girls on the east side. If teenage boys are one’s most fitting cake-wanters, stoners are a close second. They were two of only three cake requesters after they overheard us offer a couple nearby.
    3. The third was a homeless man emerging from the bathroom, saying “I love cake!”, receiving a slice, and then returning to the bathroom (presumably because it’s warm there). 
    4. A European man who rejects it by saying, “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” 
    5. A fisherman who first asks his son if he wants a slice, rejecting one for himself because “It’s not my cheat day”. Then, when offered one to save save for tomorrow, says, “Alright, I’ll take one.” and, as we walk away, follows up with, “I’m not saving this for tomorrow.”. 
    6. A group of three who comment, “That’s so generous!” to the idea of people giving out cake. The kid doesn’t want a slice, but the two adult do. The kid’s mom ends up grabbing a second slice for herself after the kid changes his mind.
    7. Learning that if you say, “Do you want some cake?”, many people will scoff. But If you say, “It’s my birthday” before they say “No”, those same people will not scoff. Once they say “No”, there’s no coming back. 

    This is our second year of giving cake in this manner. Last year we were featured on Reno After Dark. 

    Happy Birthday, Partner! 

    Parties & Penises (Mar 1 2026)

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    Sometimes days off are the most exhausting of all. 

    I feel fear.
    Fear about the largesse of what I’m doing.
    Not about the wrongness.
    Just the largesse. 

    This morning I awoke excited for a day of poker & bedrot.
    But my partner (who is currently in San Francisco) texted me about a potluck in Brooklyn.
    The potluck: 11:30am. Her text: 9:45am. So I sprinted through a 20min Peloton ride and hightailed it to Brooklyn.

    I enjoyed the party. Two people who I especially enjoyed. One an excellent storyteller and the other a skilled hypeman. 

    Then, two hours of poker. I dialed up my social shenanigans while dialing in my poker playing. Crushed the game. Save for one situation where I lost a 47% vs 53% scenario for $100, the cards were win-win-win! 

    Then, at the subway station en route to a friend’s penis party (more on that later), a woman held out her phone with a picture, asking me how to get to Times Square. Her language sounded familiar. I said, “French?” She said, “Creole”. 

    I tried French to no avail. Must be too distant from her creole (despite it clearly being French-influenced). I successfully got her to the right station. But it was through a series of sounds and gestures (“boop. Boop. Bing!” means “not this station, not that station, but the one after”.) Sometimes all those years of French class are less effective than the communication skills I’ve recently learned from my year-and-a-half-old nephew! 

    Finally, at the penis party. 5 years, he’s had it. (A phalloplasty, specifically.)
    The food? Tacos (heh) and penis-shaped cake (pronounced “cock”). 

    I liked these folks. Lots of laughs, an Irish catholic lesbian my new favorite among them. Great sense of humor and vibrancy for dark humor in life. 

    That lesbian is a building examiner. She says if my architect self-certifies, I don’t have a building examiner. That’s nice. Sounds like I’ll pass code! 

    Walking home from the subway, I’m struck by a few elements: 

    1. I’m afraid. Fearful. Terrified. Of becoming house poor. It makes sense to me. I see how people do it. 
    2. My community is diverse. This morning’s pot luck was 100% tech or tech-adjacent. My favorite people were a couple of churchgoing presbyterian boarding-school grads. Then, everybody at the party tonight was either trans, jewish, or both (or the plus-one of someone trans or jewish). It’s no coincidence that the host is trans and jewish. 
    3. For years I’ve asked, “Who are my people?” At least I’ve found those people self-select. Autistic, definitely. Intellectual, yes. But aside from those traits, I don’t think it’s as clear as it would be for my trans & Jewish friend. 

    Sometimes I wonder how much we’re carved by influential experiences that we didn’t select. By how much our scars draw us to others who’ve experienced similar. 

    Then I walk home. Suddenly, I’m all alone. It’s glorious and sad. Lonely and elevated. Freedom and…
    …
    …

    no. that’s it.
    just freedom. 

    The Previous Tenants (Feb 25 2026)

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    In which Our Hero interacts with one separate yet equally important group…  Dun dun…

    At 8:32am, my doorbell rings three times in quick succession. I groggily roll over and tell Partner I got it. I walk to the door and flick the peephole to open. “POLICE!” says the voice on the other side. The peephole is dark as though covered by something. The something moves. I now see 3 bodies.
    “One sec.” I reply. The voice on the other side grunts something noncommittal.
    Naked, I go to the bathroom and pee for what feels like a very long time.
    I then toss on yesterday’s shirt and pants. I tell Partner, “What do we tell cops?”
    She replies something like, “The truth?”
    “Nothing,” I reply. “We tell cops nothing.”
    On the way to the door, I grab my hat. Just before opening the door, I turn on voice memo mode on my phone. 

    I open the door. It’s a man in front, two women standing one on either side behind him. The following is a direct transcript. 

    Me: Hey, good morning. 

    Cop: Good morning, how are you doing? My name is Austin, from the New York City Police Department. Sorry to bother you.

    Me: No worries. 

    Cop: What’s your name? 

    Me: Julian. 

    Cop: Julian, are you the only one that lives here?

    Me: Yeah.

    Cop: You just moved in here? 

    Me: Yeah. 

    Cop: How long ago? 

    Me: End of January. 

    Cop: End of January. Do you know who used to live here before you? 

    Me: No. 

    Cop: Oh, okay. Do you get any, is it just you that lives here? 

    Me: My partner is here at the moment, but I’m the only one who lives here.

    Cop: Who’s your partner then? 

    Me: Nikki. 

    Cop: Nikki. Do you get any mail, or used to, for this name?

    [He holds out a piece of paper. It’s a mug shot with statistics.] 

    Me: [Mispronunciation of the mug shot person’s name]? 

    Cop: Yes. 

    Me: I’m not familiar with that person. 

    Cop: No mail? 

    Me: No.

    Cop: She look familiar to you? 

    Me: No. 

    Cop: No. 

    Me: I received, maybe like two weeks ago, a letter or two in the mailbox that was not addressed to me, and clearly wasn’t for me, and so what people usually do is they put it on the thing next to it, and then when the guy comes by to deliver the mail, he’ll take it back.
    [I promise English is my first language.] 

    Cop: Do you know if it was for her? 

    Me: I don’t remember.

    Cop: Don’t remember, yeah. Okay. All right. I’m sorry about everything. 

    Me: No worries.

    Cop: All right. 

    Me: Cheers.

    I close the door and return to Partner. She says in a deep voice, “NYPD, open up!”. We laugh about how cops are only mildly inconvenient in their normal duties (ringing aggressively at 8:30am, the way a child would ding-dong three times), but when they really want to get you, they’re incredibly inconvenient (like busting down your door at 5am). 

    Here’s what I’ve heard about the previous owner: 

    • A mother lived here with her son. The mother owned the apartment. She died. The son didn’t make the maintenance fee payments. He kept sneaking into the apartment: breaking through the front door or climbing up the fire escape to break in. This explains the one-inch diameter deadbolt on the fire escape. 
    • Last time the management company stopped by, the previous tenants had a big pool table in the middle of the living room. Compared to that previous state, our current state of disheveled (Amazon boxes strewn about) is what the management company describes as “very clean”. 
    • The previous owner was foreclosed on. The court case took ~3 years. 

    Since this morning, here’s what I’ve since learned about [correct pronunciation of the mug shot person’s name]: 

    • She was born in the Bronx, had a hard childhood, suffered from medical and mental health issues, was arrested multiple times for misdemeanors, and then was charged with felony robbery.
    • She participated in “Alternative to Incarceration” court with the Fortune Society, which provided her with therapy and an arts program. She had an art exhibition in 2022 and graduated from the program in fall of 2023.
    • In February 2024, she shared her success story at the State of the Judiciary program in Albany and has been featured in multiple materials since. She was proud to hold a job, have her own apartment, and was expecting her first child that spring.
    • She had an eviction filed against her in March of 2025 for not-my-address and is due in court next week.
    • It’s not clear to me why NYPD was looking for her.

    I stopped by the bank earlier today. The banker talked for twenty minutes about the cruise she wants to go on. I told her the story of my morning, being awaken by NYPD. She began singing the Taylor Swift Song: 

    “Welcome to New York.”