Tag: Philosophy

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)

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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. 

Hibernation (Feb 7 2026)

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In which Our Hero sweeps (metaphorically; he has a robot vacuum for the literal.)

At the end of today, I felt like I didn’t do anything. That can be the feeling of administrative days. When you pare the 111 emails in your inbox down to 18. When you build a bedframe and run the cables for your internet from in-the-way to out-of-the-way. It feels a bit like vacuuming: worth doing, not super satisfying while you’re doing it, but at the end it’s much easier to take new steps. 

Today, we hosted my sister’s family. For 8 days, I’ve lived in this space. Added furniture, cooking equipment, etc. And today, we ate brunch: four adults, one toddler. Ample food, sufficient tea, and comfy places to sit. We talked about the apartment remodel and our favorite places in the area. ‘Twas incredibly adult. 

After brunch, my partner and I walked to the hardware store and The Park. These might sound like simple endeavors, but New York feels like a tundra like now – negative 14ºF after windchill. 

Last Saturday at 9pm I heard sirens outside my apartment. Not attending to anyone nearby, I suspect: just taking this street to their destinations. Tonight? No sirens. Bitter cold stifles movement. 

Today was a great day to visit a neighbor who needed a screwdriver and use her iron to attach a patch to some clothing.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl. Inspired by my love for this holiday, I shall host a party. 

Like today, I hope both teams win.

Butting Heads to Move Ahead (Feb 6 2026)

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“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. 

Precisely Pinpointed Pricing (Jan 30 2026) 

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In which New York City accepts everyone… and especially their money

For a city with such diversity, it sure does discriminate. 

I’m talking, of course, about price discrimination. 

—

This evening, I purchased an unpriced slice of cake. 

I walked into a cake store, perused the menu, and made my selection: a slice of strawberry cheesecake. 

The cashier rang it up, a dollar more than I expected. 

I asked, something like “The sign says $6.99, but your cash register says $7.99”. 

He calmly explained to me that the price said “Six ninety-nine and up”; only the plain slice was $6.99; and pointed to the place on the sign where it said “$6.99+”. 

I looked around. Nowhere in the store could I see the prices for the different slices. So I asked him to list them, both because I was curious about their prices and because I thought it was an insane way for a customer to learn the prices for a dozen different items. 

— 

At some New York pizza restaurants, a plain slice costs $1.50, and you can get two slices and a can of soda for $3.50. At these very same pizza restaurants, you can get a single slice with a fancier topping for $3.50. 

—

In the year I’ve lived in New York, I have found the city very affordable. People are shocked when they hear this. “New York is expensive!” they’ll tell me. 

“Nah, just rent,” I’ll say. 

So if you live in a van or a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, the rest is very doable. 

$5 for 12 delicious dumplings in Chinatown; $1.50 for a slice of pizza; $5 margaritas. These are not high prices. You want a different flavor of dumplings or a topping on your pizza, or a flavored margarita: that’ll cost you. But for the basics, New York has you covered. 

My partner thinks this is a function of affordable housing. I know plenty of affluent people living within a block of affordable housing projects. They comingle, sharing the same streets and frequenting the same restaurants. This city therefore needs options at every pricepoint. You want to rent a bike from one of those docks? The normal ones are cheap and manual, the e-bikes more expensive and easier. Poor people bike, as do wealthy people. (Except for right now when all the bikes are encased in a foot of snowcrete.) And everyone takes the subway. 

At my apartment purchase closing yesterday, one of the members of my apartment co-op board mentioned how her uber took 45 minutes. I know the distance she went. The subway would have taken 30. But I think she got something more than transportation from the uber. Just as the person who buys the burrata slice of pizza gets something more than food. 

Is it fair to call that flavor? 

The $2 extra on the $5 Hell’s Kitchen margarita is explicitly for “flavor.”

I rated the cheesecake restaurant 2 stars. The cake was delicious. I may return. I just don’t respect their menu practices. I prefer my discrimination to be honest.

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

The Eyes Have It! (Jan 27 2026)

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In which… conehead? 

I awoke this morning at 5:30. By 7:30 I was on the train. At 8:15 I was on the subway. At 8:45 I arrived to my appointment. The appointment lasted from 9:00 to 9:17. By 9:30 I was back on the subway. By 10:00 I was back on the train. At 11:20 I was home.

What 17-minute meeting is worth nearly 4 hours of travel? Why did I awaken so early?

My mind often wakes me early when I have much to accomplish. And today’s was not about the life-changing home purchase I’ve been working on. Today’s was about my eyes.

They’re cones, you see. Becoming them, at least. My sister used to refer to me (affectionately?) as cone-eye.

And cones, as any optician will tell you, do not make ideal lenses.

After ten years of wanting and wishing and wandering, I’ve finally found a surgeon who should be able to get me the perfect vision I’ve always wanted (sans glasses).

I had an appointment with a member of his team 6 months ago, and then again today to confirm the measurements are stable. (I.e. my eyes have concluded their cone-becomingness.)

They have.

We have.

In 14 days I will consult with this surgeon.

One, or two, or perhaps six days later he will slice open my eye to add a new lens.

One week after that, he will repeat with the other eye.

Then,

we

shall

see

Mellow and Dramatic (Jan 26 2026)

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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)

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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.