Tag: Humor

Stuck in the Mud (Feb 12 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero <schlorp schlorp schlorp>.

On our long third date, my partner and I got stuck in the mud. 

We were rock hounding after snowmelt, down a dirt road off another dirt road in the middle of nowhere without cell service, and my two-wheel-drive van got stuck. 

I was driving; clearly my fault. 

We discussed our options: 1) get unstuck; 2) sleep here and walk the 5-7 miles to town in the morning to get cell service to call for a tow. 

2 hours later, after around 10 overly optimistic “that’s it! We’ve got it!”s, both the van and I were covered with mud, and our gentle rocking (putting some rocks just behind the wheels and move back; putting rocks in front of the front wheels and move forward; repeat without rinsing) had us back on solid ground. 

—

Yesterday, I made a mistake. 

A reasonable mistake. 

A mistake that… 

Because, like, how can a refrigerator exist that doesn’t fit through a normal width doorway? 

A fair question. 

But it turns out my doorway is 1.5” short of normal width. 

Oof. 

—

At 9am someone posted “free fridge!” In the neighborhood free group. 

Within 40min, I had dibs. 

At 11am, my super lent me his hand cart. 

At 5:45pm, my partner and I walked the 5 short blocks and one long block to pick it up. This walk took 20 minutes, 5 of which was spent buying a ratchet strap for a 15% discount because it lacked a component that wouldn’t affect our use. 

At 7pm, we reached home with the fridge. 

… and realized it was too wide for the building’s front door. 

So I took the fridge doors off while my partner measured our unit door. 

She reported back, “We’re going to need to take the unit door off too, but it should fit”. 

At 7:45pm, I had the fridge doors off and it at the front door to our unit. 

At 8:15pm, we had the unit door off, despite 3 screws being stripped before we got there, and concluded the fridge bulges slightly in the middle

At 8:40, we had just enough screws back in the unit door to close it (if you physically heave up on the knob to seat it properly in the latch), stowed the fridge in the basement, and went for pizza. 

—

What did I learn? 

  1. Excitement and optimism can distract from considering practicalities. 
  2. Doors may be a standard 30” wide. But some doors are not standard. I imagine the same applies to other common items (eg cars). 
  3. Avoiding the sadness and pain during the installation and re-installation will increase the likelihood this sort of event happens again. 

The whole experience was frustrating and grumble-provoking. 

Many parts of me were generally annoyed at the situation. And therefore annoyed at all its contents (me, my partner, the door). 

It’s interesting, however, that this didn’t cause my partner any emotional harm. (I asked.)

Evidently she also felt frustration and dissatisfaction, but the annoyance I felt at her didn’t come through to her. 

Since getting engaged, this appears to be a change. Maybe the fact of having an increasingly-solid foundation means we’re both less worried about some of the minor pokes and scuffles. 

She knows that it’s us against the problem. And the problem is challenging and frustrating and annoying. So even though I’m partially annoyed at her (because I’m annoyed at everything), it’s chill. 

And that’s nice. 

Because sometimes we get stuck in the mud. 

And when we do. 

90% of the time it’s my fault. 

😂 

Hate Mail (Feb 11 2026)

Julian2 Comments

In which it’s nice to be seen 🙂 

My first piece of hate mail arrived in the form of a google document from my partner’s former grad school weightlifting friend. It articulated all the terrible traits that he observed during the long weekend we stayed with him. It included such gems as, “There were multiple occurrences of him saying something to the effect of ‘this happened because of some thing you did Nikki’ or ‘whose fault is this?’ And because he was saying it in a silly way it is expected to be a joke.” 

I read this criticism to a clown school friend of mine, who asked, “Oh, so you were doing bits?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “One was blaming Nikki for absolutely absurd things that were clearly not her fault, like the weather.” 

“That’s a pretty good bit.” 

“I agree.” 

—

Then, two months ago, I received a second piece of hate mail. This one came as a series of text messages from a fellow clown student. She derided my blog, my relating to other humans, and my analytic approach. I hadn’t spoken with her in ~a month (I had broken my foot and stepped away from clown school), and before that, I recall only neutral-to-positive experiences. Apropos of nothing, she sent me this diatribe. 

I have since shared that letter with a few friends. To a person, they describe it as “unhinged” (or various synonyms). 

In her hate mail, she made a few good points. My writing was likely alienating to some clown students. Clown school is a beautiful place and a precious gift. 

She also took some shots. Specifically, she said I “wasn’t funny yet” (the newsletter was called “Am I Funny Yet?”) and she described my blog as “very public and mediocre”. 

After I received that letter from her, I of course didn’t reply. I also of course didn’t alter my writing or publishing schedule. The article I published that day prompted a second screed from her the next day. She – in whatever reality she was experiencing – thought my intervening post had been about her (it had not). 

This second screed brought me great joy. 

“Ah,” I thought. “How wonderful it is that she reads my blog every day!” 

—

I like to live my life in public. I adore New York partly for that reason: meeting strangers and living in an environment where big, bold people are appreciated. I take my shirt off in public. I do so even though I’ve grown breasts. 

I also think it’s funny to call a blog about someone’s daily struggles “mediocre”. It’s not polished. It’s not complete. It’s not intended to be either of those. It’s a documentation of my attempts to do new and challenging things; a collection of my thoughts and observations and learnings and experiences. I’ve never been accused of waiting for perfection (and my partner, at least, thinks my life is better for it). That’s one of the clowning lessons: fail more, and befriend your flops. 

To quote my partner: “Being mediocre is the first step towards being kinda sorta good at something”. 

At present, I have 21 Substack subscribers and 168 subscribers. 

I’ve never looked at my stats before. I haven’t cared. I still don’t. But it’s nice to know that her estimate is also true numerically. 

So yeah, with my hundred of fans and my abnormal life, I’m proud to be: 

Very Public & Mediocre. 

Anger & Elation (Feb 8 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which annoyance passes and delight arrives 

This morning I wrote an angry email. To someone who has done me wrong. Done me wrong in at least two ways. And now, a third. 

In buying this apartment, I worked with many people. Some more competent, some less. But this particular person was in charge of the majority of the paperwork and timeline. And is responsible for 1) much of the work not starting until three days before closing (despite having 4 months to complete it and it being scheduled to be a three month process); 2) sending me out looking for a printer at 11pm in suburban France because she needed a wet signature on something that actually later turned out to not be wet signature; and 3) now needing me to do something after closing that both isn’t my job and exposes me to liability, but which I need to have happen since it’s my money on the line. 

So I wrote an angry email. An appropriately angry email. Not one filled with emotion. One that tells her that I don’t accept this scenario and if needed I will find someone else, higher up on her team to fix it. 

This got me thinking about the recent social shaming of people who ask to speak to managers. 

In many of our commercial situations, it’s one of the few powers that individuals do have. In my case, it’s a large national bank where someone’s screwed up thrice, but I’ve had to be nice and cheery and pleasant about it because I needed their future cooperation. But now, that deal is complete. I don’t need her positivity: I need her to solve this. 

How much of our recent social shaming of Karens is an implicit political backhand slapping of assertive women? I’ve never thought it appropriate to shame that function. (Entitledment, sure. But that doesn’t strike me as the main element of a Karen.) 

I’ve never respected any generalized term that uses a person’s name as a metonymy. (Karen; Chad; more recently, Kyle.) They tend to engage in the bad type of stereotyping. 

This is to say I don’t mind behaving in a manner that others might describe as Karenly. 

So tonight, I sleep. And tomorrow, maybe I send. 

It’s no fun to be done with a thing and then be told you’re not done. 

—

Tonight I hosted a superbowl party. I love the superbowl. It’s the most patriotic I get every year. Football, advertising, halftime show: there’s something for everybody. 

I created a little gambling game. My partner and I made nachos. We used the event as an excuse to get cake. 

It’s nice to live somewhere. 

I look forward to building community. 

Butting Heads to Move Ahead (Feb 6 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

“I have always depended on the incentives of strangers.” 

Three days ago I called my property management company. I said my windows wouldn’t close and my door lacked a knob. They said the same company would service both. And that company would call me. 

Yesterday I emailed my property management company. I said the window/door servicer hadn’t called. They replied that if I didn’t hear by 1pm I should tell them. 

At 1pm I emailed the property management company, “They haven’t called me”. 

At 1:04pm, the window/door servicer called me. He said, “We can come by tomorrow afternoon”.

I said, “Tomorrow at noon is good”. 

“After noon,” he corrected. 

“What time?” 

“After noon”. 

“Can you do at noon?” 

“We can do between noon and four.” 

“Can you do noon?” 

“My team has other jobs they’re doing. We can do tomorrow between noon and four or between two and four”. 

“Can you do between noon and two?” 

<Pause> “Yes, we can do between noon and two”. 

—

An hour later, I called him back. 

“It’s Julian Wise. We scheduled for your team to come tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” 

“Can we reschedule to Monday?” 

“Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow or Saturday to schedule a time.” 

“Thank you.” 

—

This experience feels quintessentially New York to me. Here’s how: 

  1. Someone has a very specific set of constraints they’re not willing to budge from. They’re not un-reasonable, just very specific. 
  2. When you keep poking, they hold their ground. They’re trying to help, just constrained by unseen forces. (Their scheduling software? Their team’s unpredictability? Poor foresight skills that their behavioral systems compensate for?) 
  3. When you find a creative solution, they’re open to it, just within their world. (If he can do between noon and four or between two and four, he might-should be able to do between noon and two. He just didn’t realize it, but is open to it). 
  4. When schedules change, we accept this immediately. Is there anger that we spent 15 back-and-forths only for me to reschedule him? Of course not. 

This particular culture makes sense to me. Perhaps it’s the impact of its brand of economics, but I do well in cultures of high diversity and high commerce. In these environments, culture tends to evolve out of commerce: highly accepting, so long as you figure out the economics. 

And I enjoy economics. 

—

In other news, my super knocked on my door yesterday afternoon. He asked if my sink worked. I said only one of the three does. He offered to swing back to fix it. Is he bored? Does he want another slice of pizza? Is he curious whether another $50 is coming his way if he helps? 

Hard to tell. But today he fixed my kitchen sink and left with a slice of pizza in one hand, a soda in the other, and a smile on his face. 

Mason Casey (Feb 1 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

“Do you like psilocybin mushrooms,” the wizened man asked me. 

“Hey there,” I replied. 

“You look like you like mushrooms. I’m a big fan myself. I’ll take ‘em, go to the blues club over on [address forgotten]. You look straight outta the sixties, my man.” 

He fistbumped me. 

“I’m a musician. Mason Casey. That’s Casey from the Irish: C-A-S-E-Y. Internationally famous. Got four albums out. Moved back here from L.A. two years ago. Before that I was touring around Europe.” 

During this whole conversation, I stayed present and calmly open. Interested, but not pushing. Gently watching, like I would observe a curious and skittish bird. 

He whipped a harmonica out of his pocket and began to play. 

And I’ll be damned if this guy isn’t the best blues harmonica player I’ve ever heard. The lines in his cheeks suddenly made sense, showing the decades of contorting it this way and that, flicking and rolling his tongue, making more lip movements than I’ve ever made. 

“You ever on YouTube?” 

“Yes,” I say, pleasantly aware this is my first sentence since “Hey there”. 

“Look me up. And you know the West Village?” 

“Sure.” 

“I play down in the West Village on Tuesday nights.” 

Then Mason Casey, blues musician extraordinaire, fist-bumped me and strolled back into the tundra-like grid of New York City. 

Paying a Freemium (Jan 31 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which New York City continues to be incredibly inexpensive. 

Total items now in my apartment: 

  1. A gaming chair, used, retrieved from a 4th floor walkup apartment and then rolled four blocks
  2. Three felt chairs, used, retrieved from a block away
  3. Coffee table, used, retrieved a 6th floor walkup apartment and then carried 15 blocks (regrettably)
  4. 2 large instant pots, new, retrieved from that same walkup
  5. 6 sets of cutlery, used, retrieved on the walk home from my sister’s apartment
  6. One pair of gloves, small, retrieved directly from a very friendly doorman who taught my partner how doormen work 
  7. One pair of snow boots, size 7 womens, same. 

Total cost: 

  • $0. 

One of the fun traits about New York City: people are constantly giving away free stuff! I don’t plan on furnishing my home with these items forever, but my apartment is now very hospitable. The only item missing is a fridge. 

—

I just took a break from writing to search for fridges on craigslist. I messaged 6 people. Tomorrow, perchance I have a fridge. 

Mellow and Dramatic (Jan 26 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero mellows in the drama 

Today was the first day of the second term. I’m not there. I’m in Etampes, four minutes walk from the school. I walked earlier today by the train station cafe that doubles as the student haunt. Yet I’m not there. Do I miss it? 

Today my mother and I dawdled down a classic Parisian street. Over lunch we swapped plates four times so we could experience what the other was eating. An Eastern European tourist offered us alcohol at Jim Morrison‘s tombstone. A California native gushed his worries about American politics 10 feet away from Molière corpse. 

This evening, my housing purchase was confirmed. After 8 years nomadic (homeless?), it’s time to put down roots. My partner ordered a bed for the empty apartment. I ordered locks for the doors. We’re buying one way flights like we always do, only this time they’re to home. 

The clown course I’m missing is melodrama. A fellow student once told me that melodrama is about stretching moments. What should be a five second stroll becomes ten minutes of dramatic, hyper-experienced anguish. 

Today stretched. From sprinting for the train to dashing through loan documentation, I was hyper present. Focused. Immersed. 

That’s one of the goals (or is it *the main goal* of clown school). Presence. Giving. Moving forward. 

I don’t miss melodrama. 

I’m excited for my life. 

The Presents of Presence (Jan 25 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero, carried along… 

At 10:17am, my mother awoke. I had been awake since 7am: bought bread from the bakery, roasted duck in the oven. She awoke in part due to my ideal duck timing: the duck roasts for 30 minutes; she awoke 27 minutes in, the smell wafting under her door like that pie in the old cartoon. 

The fast train leaves Étampes for Paris at 11:26. Awakening at 10:17, you’d think we make it. I proposed this option without much commitment. We decided we’d eat duck, wait, and see. 

Then, two hours passed. 

We ate duck. We discussed the differing baguettes. We laughed about the train coming and then passing, us not on it. 

We failed to catch that train, then the next train. We grabbed the one after. 

If the point is the together, why matter which train? 52 minutes vs 34: the extra 18 is <le shrug>. 

Then, on the platform, we happened upon clowns. Two friends I’d been hoping to see, but the planning is hard. We rode together, riffing, laughing, le jeu. 

There’s a funny thing about living in the moment. You’re never disappointed or wanting. You may have desires, but you don’t want for anything. Perfectly satisfied and engaged. It’s the tension of wanting what you don’t have that makes the dissatisfaction of not having it. (I meditated today. I should meditate daily. It keeps me more momentized. It dims my mental chatter.) 

8 hours later, after walking around the Latin Quarter and Notre Dame, my mother and I headed home early. The fast train was delayed, so the trip took an hour. How nice it is to sit on a train station platform, hearing about your mother’s old friendships. Not something you’d think to do, but exceedingly nice when it happens.

A Homecoming of Sorts (Jan 23 2026)

JulianLeave a comment

In which? In Étampes! 

Back in Étampes, the land of the Clown School. My mother and I are visiting for ~5 days. 

My mother asked me what it’s like to be back.

My answer, in anecdotes:

  • At the airport, waiting for the bus, my mother and I talked about our travels to France: hers through Portugal, mine from Spain. Perhaps its the German genes we share, but both of us have trouble with those local cultures of queueing. 
  • When the corner baker popped up from behind the counter and saw me, her eyes widened and her cheeks shined. “I thought you were gone,” she said. I told her about my broken foot and leaving for the holiday. She told me, “Before you leave, you must tell me!”
  • My mother asked, “What should we get in our croissant?”. I replied, “Oh you silly Americans. We are going to the best croissant in the whole town. We will eat it as it is.” And we did. And it was good.
  • “I’m glad I’m wearing my boots, because this is muddy!” (I don’t own boots.) 
  • The two cheeses in the fridge, untouched for 1.5 months, had me wary. One ages for 24 months before it gets to me; the other spends its adolescence stewing in musty caves, which are selected because they harbor fungicidal mold. Perhaps it’s no surprise they’re both not only edible but delicious.
  • The outer crunch of the baguette; the smear of blue cheese; the dollup of black truffle pâté; the slice of iberian ham. If I lived here, this would be my every day. When I lived here, this was my every day.
  • Three — now four — times, my mother and I have said “It’s so great to be with you.”

Testicular biopsies really take it out of ya! (Jan 22 2026) 

JulianLeave a comment

In which Our Hero has a ball by losing part of one.*  

The second thing I told my partner after emerging from surgery: “That was fun. Can I get paid to do that?” (I guess it’s somewhat like the premise of the TV show Severance.)

I *really* like being unconscious. And awakening from anasthesia is exceedingly pleasant. 

This might not be everyone’s experience of surgery, but for mine: 

  • Before going in, I made a wager with my partner. She set the over-under line for duration at 26 minutes (from Julian leaves room to Julian re-enters room). I took the under.
    • As the doctors faffed around me in the operating room, the last thing I thought was “Eugh, I didn’t factor in this time”. 
    • Okay, the real last thing I thought was, “Huh, in the States the anesthesiologist tells you to count down as they knock you out. This guy is just waving “buh bye” at me.” 
  • After surgery, the first thing I did was tell a joke.
    • It’s my favorite bilingual Spanish joke. 
    • The doctors didn’t appreciate it. 
    • Perhaps I told it poorly. 
    • Perhaps they didn’t expect a bilingual joke from the clown who just woke up from surgery.
  • As I returned to the waiting room, I began to sing.
    • My partner tells me she knew I was returning because I’m the only person who would possibly sing in this context. 
  • Total duration: 44 minutes.
    • I even enjoyed losing the bet. 

I don’t know that there’s a job that pays like this for doing this. Medical experiments, perhaps, but I’m not sure I’d like to do those… 

Hmm. 

🤡
*(No, it’s not a reason for concern.)