The Maginot Line (Mar 26 2026)

Crossing lines and having great times 

After World War I, having been invaded by the Germans five times in under 200 years, the French devised a novel strategy: build an impenetrable line of defenses along the French-German border. The Germans could not defeat this line. The forts and artillery were too strong. The Maginot Line held. I see this same concept all over French culture. 

The Germans went around The Line. Through Belgium. And invaded France yet again.
Oops. 

In the 2010s, France experienced a rash of bombings. In response, there now exist security officers at every sporting event and even many grocery stores. These security officers check bags for weaponry. But if you simply don’t stop? What if you walk through, refusing their patdown? Do they tackle you like the potential terrorist you are? No, they shrug uncomfortably and continue about their business. How do I know? I’ve done this many times. 

When the park closes at 6pm and it’s 5:45, the French gendarmes stand at the entry to prevent your entry. They do this because the park closing at 6pm means everyone must be out by then, not merely in the process of leaving. I accept this difference as a cultural choice and have no qualms with it. But when an American in a silly teal dinosaur hat argues with the gendarme for forty five seconds and then simply plows ahead, they do not apprehend him. They do nothing more than shout “Monsieur! Monsieur” a few times before returning to their croissant. 

Some local frogs (that’s the PC term for French people) taught me a silly game of throwing sticks. I happened upon these frogs thanks to one time I was out for a stroll in the darkness and saw lights and heard laughter. I approached to watch. They said (in French) “this is a private club”. I replied (in French) “we were out for a stroll and saw the lights”. They invited me and Partner to play. 

That experience isn’t the Maginot Line connection. (Even though a boundary did go un-enforced, ahem.)

The Maginot Line connection is that I taught a frog classmate how to play the game and she kept stepping over the line. When I called her out on it (it’s like bocci or bowling: a restriction on one’s distance is literally what makes it a game), she didn’t stop. She continued stepping over the line, stepping on it, using her foot to move the line, etc. It’s like she needed Germanic-level rule enforcement to keep her in line. 

The public parks in France close at sunset. That closure is my least favorite part of French culture. My research suggests this trait is due to the French desire to prevent people from doing bad things. In American legal culture, we’re deeply skeptical of preventive restrictions. Our permissiveness is part of what makes us innovative: you’re allowed to break the law; it just leads to punishment. 

And the fact that we Americans are a violent bunch means people have the honor not to step over lines. Viewing a nude performance art piece in Texas, I asked a fellow audience member what would happen if someone started recording. The local longhorn (that’s PC term for Texan) said that at least a dozen people would beat you up and take your phone. 

During the French Olympics, the U.S. State Department warned Americans about Parisian pickpockets. The Americans responded by beating them up so frequently it became an international meme.
Presumably when a native frog catches a pickpocketed in France, the appropriate response is to shout “Monsieur! Monsieur!” as they run away.

The Purpose of Purpose (Mar 23 2026)

In which Our Hero lackadaisicals purposely  

Last week, in Central Park, a 2 year old boy told his mother “bus”, clearly indicating a desire to board.
His mother asked, “Where do you want to go?”
The boy did not answer, looking down to the side, clearly confused by the question.
It made about as much sense as asking someone where they’d like to go on a roller coaster.

Today, my 18 month old nephew rode the fast train to Paris. Looking out the window, he repeated, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Over and over. 

For babies, the process is the purpose. 

When does that change? 

In rural Arkansas, the focus is football. In urban areas, basketball instead.
When life is rough we prioritize the achievements to improve our lives.
When life is easy, we get to play. 

Now, when should we
Approach play with the intensity of necessity
Or
Approach intensity with the posture of play ? 

The most successful in sport
see the game as more important than it is. 

Is the same also true of the other direction?
The most successful CEOs have a simple stick. 

The times I’m most appealing to others
most attractive
most magnetic
Are the times when I am fully speeding ahead.
Moving aggressively or assertively in direction toward desired outcome.
enacting Purpose. 

Yet there is no joy
like a little boy
pointing at a cement mixer
only to be graced
by the kind construction workers
opening the valve
to release its steam. 

The Sunshine of My Life (Mar 21 2026)

A reflection on partner’s reflection 

Partner seems much happier today. Less pressured. Less stressed. Less worried. More reflective.
I’d think she’s high, but I know she’s not.
Is it the weekend? The days of space while I’m miles away? The joy that comes from wanting to be with someone, when not stifled by actually being with them?
Or am I changed? Different? more open and relaxed.
I really, really think its her.

I’m glad she has time to herself. To work and gym and walk. The same things we do when we’re together. But recently, it’s been all business. The apartment floorplan; her work; my work. Heads-down in a hyper-focused sort of way.
The time we’re free, we spend playing cards with friends.
We plan or we execute. We execute or we plan.
We don’t get to have space

Is there a value to space.
To the separation you get from separating.
To the open, empty curiosity.
To the necessary reflection. The seeing. The reckoning.
Is that what I’m seeing? This open, energized, asking-for-what-she-wants version of a woman I love?
Is that the beauty that space creates?

Do we have too little of that in our days together?
Should I take some action to create more… 

I enjoyed writing that.
To explore its ideas.
To mull its philosophy and systems-level approach. 

But also, 

I think not.
I think it more likely
today was just,
finally, 

a warm, 

sunny

day. 

Talking to Strangers (Mar 18 2026) 

In which Our Hero makes a new friend

“Is this your pillow?” The well-groomed man from Galveston Texas holds out my pillow in offering. 

“Yes,” I say and take it. He sits down beside me, to my right, and immediately plugs his charger into our shared outlet. 

Three minutes later, I ask my father, “is that your light that’s pointing down at me?” 

My father says no. I illuminate my screen. The screen shows an advertisement, then another. The clock in the corner counts down from nearly 3 minutes. 

“Three minutes worth of ads?” I say to no one in particular. 

The light switches off. “It was my light,” says the well-groomed man from Galveston Texas. 

 “You heading to Paris for business or vacation?” I ask. 

“Neither. My wife’s father died.” 

“Recently?” 

“Today.” 

“Was it sudden?” 

“Very sudden. Heart attack.” 

You ever talk to someone and it’s especially smooth, like the caramel inside of a Lindt chocolate truffle oozing slowly out of its shell. If I liked men and he weren’t married and I weren’t engaged… 

Harrison is an interior designer. Not an architect (that’s the requirement to be a floor plan submitter in New York), but he works with a lot of architects. He draws the plans for them to submit. 

I check the specifics. “If I showed you a bathroom and said ‘is that a prototype?’, you’d be able to spot it in your sleep?” 

“Pretty much.” 

“Feel free to say no. Can I ask you a couple questions?” 

He agrees. I pull up my floorplan. “I got these three bathrooms. This left one is accessible. And the right ones: one of the doorways is 28 inches, the other 24 inches, and one of them opens up off the kitchen.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Harrison says. “I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

“But bathrooms need to have doorways 32 inches clear.” 

“It’ll probably get through. You have the accessible one over there.” 

“That’s not code.” 

“I know. But they’re [the examiners are] reasonable. And the bathroom off the kitchen: I’ve never seen it enforced.” 

“That’s one thing I’ve loved about New York City: the rules are only rules if you’re also bothering other people. If you aren’t affecting anyone, people generally let you alone.” 

Harrison laughs. “And even if they don’t, you can always draw 32 inch doors and then just install smaller ones. We’ve been working for five years with a building that requires 34 inch doors. We’ve never installed a single one.” 

Thank you, Harrison. 

Yes, that is my pillow. 

Thank you for helping me sleep easier.

On Math/Physics, and People (Mar 12 2026)

In which Our Hero butts up against the stupidest. 

Our world contains two types of problems: 

  1. Problems of physics/math
  2. Problems of people 

The first type is insurmountable. No amount of bargaining, negotiating, coercing, or bribing will affect these Truths. 

The second type is negotiable. Fudgable. Affectable. Mushy. With enough charisma or know-how, you can cajole and sneak your way through. 

Much debate occurs at their interface. Science itself is the experimental method of sorting observations into one category or the other. 

Today, I drew a picture. A beautiful picture. Water running in pipes through a wall. The human harnessing of physics to achieve hygiene through handwashing and safety through sewage: perhaps the greatest lifesaving invention of the last millennium. 

And now some goddamn housing code tells me I can’t. Not because the physics fails. Not for any harm to others. Not even for any harm to myself. But simply because some bureaucrat wrote some rule that says I need additional space in front of my toilet. 

This code is not reasonable.
This code is not logical.
This code is not practical.
This code should not apply to what I do in my own house. 

Yet now I have to visit the Department of Buildings office hours yet again on Tuesday to see if I can formulate new drawings that can pass this ridiculous code. Not for the reason that the code matters. Simply because that’s what it is. 

I. Despise. This. Code. 

Sunday in the Park as “Oeurgh!” (Mar 8 2026)

In which Our Hero tries really hard to do hard things. 

I walked with a new person today.
Enjoyed diving into his head.
Sometimes I do this. Ask what he’s paying attention to, then follow where his mind wanders. 

It started as a potential business conversation. But as business conversations sometimes go, that felt too high-stress. So we said “let’s not talk about that…” and talked about what was fun. 

And what was fun, inevitably, circled back to the business at hand. 

I wonder whether we’ll move forward together.
I wonder if the overlap between his interest and my curiosity will take us where I thought it would. 

At the end of the conversation, I excused myself to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet. 

Life has been stressful of late. 

Big moves. 

Frightening moves. 

Exhausting and intense and overwhelming moves. 

We’ve decided to narrow scope. 

The good: When I increased scope, the contractor offered me discounts for a few items. That means I know his marginal cost on them. Now, when we decrease scope, I’ll get those at a discount. This could sum to a few thousand dollars. 

The bad: this experience is terrifically unenjoyable. Combing through all the proposals to locate how specific prices ballooned, and therefore 

The ¿ugly?: We’ll probably end up writing the scope sheet for the contractor instead of the other way around. While this will probably arrive at a satisfying conclusion, it is an incredibly stressful and annoying process. 

An Arbitrary Quest (Mar 7 2026)

In which our activities arrive us. 

At 1pm, Partner and I set out on the road. She had returned from the gym; I from a Peloton workout. Onwards we went, to Flushing, Queens in search of dumplings. 

As we left, Partner mentioned I would enjoy spending more time outside. The sun is nice; brightness a boost; the last few days I have spent poring over floorplans and calling contractors. 

Flushing offers world-renowned dumplings. So off we went. 

One block away, the sun felt so nice. “What if instead…” I offered. We arrived at the subway but did not enter. 45 minutes on a train seemed not the move. 

Instead, we took that left turn at Albuquerque. 

Two blocks down, a mid-40s black woman emerged from a bodega. She saw Partner and me, walking holding hands. She burst out into song: “I wanna hold your ha-aa-aand”. We joined in. For fifteen glorious seconds, the Beatles were performing a free concert in New York City. She laughed and we laughed; we continued onward up north. 

Three blocks later, we entered the Malcolm Shabazz market. The first stand sold African textiles. The second, African textiles. “Perhaps we could find mitmita,” Partner said.  “They might only sell textiles,” I replied. I then saw a new offering: shea butter. “I guess they do have food,” I mused, then realized shea butter is for haircare. 

Onwards we walked. Right on 125th St. We noted the incoming 2nd Avenue train. In we walked to a rare soda shop. Or at least we would have, had they not been closed. Then to a two-story grocery store offering free samples of Dominican sausage. We used the bathroom. I checked my phone for bad news from one contractor. 

Onwards east til we found the river. Then over the river to Randall’s Island. On Randall’s Island, dirtbikers doing wheelies. We watched for a minute or two. Nikki told me in D.C. the ATVs do wheelies down the street. They can’t see where they’re going while wheelie-ing. One hit a pedestrian. The pedestrian died. 

On Randall’s Island, we reconsidered the work we’ll do on the apartment. What do we actually want? How much is worth doing? At what expense? We returned to our goals: 1) sufficiently functional; 2) live in community. 

5 bedrooms, 3 bath. Open kitchen with island. Flatten the floors. Raise the ceiling in our bedroom and the little nook. Everything else is optional. 

I’d like to raise the ceiling in the kitchen & living room too. I’d like to raise it in every room. I’d like to shuffle the radiators around. And run new electrical to the apartment. 

But the difference between everything and enough is the difference between financially comfortable and fearful. 

A renovation can always cost more. You can always add more gold-plated toilets. 

We want it to be good enough. 

I live in New York City.
I live here because life is lived outside.
Right now, it’s cold. Even still, we walked to Queens.
Home needs to be a refuge. A solid base. Sufficient. 

It doesn’t need 12-foot ceilings everywhere.
Only where we’ll use them. 

We didn’t make it to Flushing.
Waylaid in Astoria by a friend and some Thai food. 

I lived for three months in Thailand and Laos.
Khao Soi is one of my comfort foods.
This one brought me back to those $4 lunches.
A bit under-spicy, but they probably clocked me as white. 

My first night in Thailand, I paid for the $6 hotel room.
A single power outlet jutted out beside the lightswitch.
I perched my phone on the lightswitch while charging. 

A broke college student, I hadn’t paid for the air conditioning room.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
The next day, I switched rooms. 

It’s hard to predict what’s key and what’s choice.
Induction cooktop avoids asthma vs gas-powered ones.
5 bedrooms: 2 bathrooms or three? 

A lot of the time, it’s “If we’re doing that, we might as well…”
And yes, I agree it’d be nice to have a light in the hall closet.
But also, we don’t now. And it’s fine.
We can raise each ceiling as we want to. Roommates won’t care; and raising them doesn’t require a permit. 

I wish I could do everything I want right now.
I may still. But what we want keeps growing. 

It’s hard to nail down the right choice in such a situation. Every dollar is a tradeoff. I’m excited to elevate. 

We set off to Flushing for world-class dumplings.
We arrived in Astoria for khao soi with a friend.
I’m glad to have gone through the “everything I’d ever want” exercise.
Now, take that left turn, rest your legs, and wake up. 

Expanding My Range (Mar 6 2026)

In which? in da hood! 

Range Hoods.
You want knowledge? I got knowledge.
12 hours ago I knew nothing.
Zip.
Zilch.
Now? 

You want a remote blower?
A telescoping chimney?
Oh boy am I your guy. 

You probably want to stack your Frigidaire cooktop atop your Frigidaire oven AND THEN only have 34” high countertops?
Can do. 

Is it in manufacturer’s spec?
No. 

Can we do it? 

Yep. 

Everything except ADA compliance.
[Insert wheely bad joke here.]

Magic comes to those who contribute

In which Our Hero aids & assists! 

I once attended a Las Vegas magic show headlined by a former college classmate. Afterwards, I wrote down my analysis: each trick, how I thought it was performed, how I would improve the show, etc.
I shared it with the performer. She thanked me, and henceforth no family member of mine has ever paid for show tickets to see her again! 

I didn’t do it for the free tickets. I did it to be helpful. But it’s nice to know my work was appreciated 🙂 

In similar news: 

Pony Cam wrote me back!

They took my advice. Here’s what they said: 

Hey mate,

Feedback is great. Really helpful.

We have changed that line to talk about lineage, history and labour. Played it out at today’s matinee. Went really well. Reckon we will keep it.

Thank you for the email. Appreciate the insight.

Warmests,

Pony Cam team. 

Parties & Penises (Mar 1 2026)

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.