strategically asking about cheese

Sharon and I try to get breakfast together regularly. Almost always on Saturdays — which is why we call it Dadurday. We do miss a week here and there. Life has a way of scheduling over the things that matter most. But in principle, Saturday morning is ours.

We usually go to the Landmark Diner in Roslyn. I usually order a burger. And I say this without exaggeration: their burgers are among the best I’ve ever had. Perfectly grilled, great flavor, emotionally reassuring.

And then comes the question:

“Do you want cheese?”

This is where things become complicated.

In theory, I like cheese on a burger. In practice, I like pepper jack on a burger. Other cheeses are...other cheeses. American is tolerable, I guess, though it hardly counts as cheese. Cheddar is serviceable. Swiss is OK. Blue cheese is, in my considered judgment, gross. I understand that some people claim to enjoy it. I wish them well.

Plain is also good -- burgers din't need cheese. Whether I want pepper jack or plain depends on mood, weather conditions, and perhaps deeper existential factors.

Early on, when asked about cheese, I would inquire about options. Pepper jack was not among them. Sometimes I would specifically ask. The answer remained no. Sometimes I declined cheese. Sometimes I chose a different cheese.

But over time, I realized I was not merely ordering lunch.

I was participating in a game.

This is a classic signaling problem. The diner is a rational actor. Its objective function is simple: maximize profit by selling food people want. My objective is to consume a burger, ideally topped with pepper jack.

However, information is imperfect.

If I simply decline cheese, the diner concludes I have no cheese demand.

If I hear the list and decline without commentary, the signal is noisy. Perhaps I’m indecisive. Perhaps I’m temporarily lactose-averse. No actionable data.

If I select cheddar or Swiss, then from the diner’s perspective, the equilibrium holds. The absence of pepper jack did not cost them a sale. No incentive to adjust supply.

Which leads to my optimal strategy.

To shift the equilibrium, I must create a credible signal of unmet demand.

So now, I:

Express interest in cheese.

Ask what kinds they have.

Specifically inquire about pepper jack.

Upon learning (again) that they do not have it, I decline cheese and note, gently, that I would have taken it if pepper jack were available.

This transforms a private preference into observable lost revenue.

I am, in effect, conducting a one-man market intervention.

Will this tip the curve? Probably not. It’s entirely possible that my weekly inquiry disappears into the noise of a busy Saturday shift. The kitchen may not be maintaining a Pepper Jack Request Ledger.

But in game-theoretic terms, I have at least moved from a pooling equilibrium (all cheese preferences indistinguishable) to a separating one (my preference clearly signaled).

And I have done so politely.

None of this is criticism. The people at Landmark are great. Truly. Always friendly. Always welcoming. Always patient when I ask for the cheese list as though new dairy products might have entered the market since last week. It’s consistently a terrific experience.

Dadurday, of course, is not actually about cheese.

It’s about sitting across from Sharon and talking. About her week. About what she’s thinking. About whatever small or large thing is occupying her mind. It’s about carving out time before the day accelerates. And even if we're spending some of the time on our phones, that's OK.

The burger is excellent. The game theory is mildly amusing.

But the real equilibrium I’m protecting is this one: we show up.

And if, someday, the server says, “Yes, we have pepper jack,” I’ll smile, order it, and Sharon will probably roll her eyes — because she has heard this analysis before.

Which is, in its own way, part of the tradition.

the alphabetic struggle for the presidency

Political historians tend to divide American history into eras — Founding, Reconstruction, the New Deal, the Cold War, the modern age. These divisions track ideology, party realignments, wars, and economic upheaval.

But beneath those visible shifts lies a quieter contest — measurable, cumulative, and surprisingly dramatic.

The running total of letters in the surnames of Presidents of the United States.

By counting, day by day, the cumulative occurrence of each letter across administrations, a pattern emerges. The results are not random. They form arcs. They show reversals. They reveal consolidation and realignment.

What follows is the verified history of the struggle for alphabetical supremacy.

The Founding Volatility (1789–1825)

The republic begins with N in the lead, thanks to the two N’s in Washington. The early administrations of Washington, Jefferson, and Madison allow N to establish an initial advantage.

That stability proves short-lived.

In 1801, under John Adams, A briefly takes the cumulative lead — the only time in American history that A sits atop the standings. The moment is fleeting. Later that same year, under Jefferson, N reclaims the lead.

The early republic is not yet settled. Margins are small. A single presidency can alter the balance.

In 1825, during the administration of Monroe, O overtakes N for the first time. At this point, it might appear that O’s long reign has begun.

History, however, remains unsettled.

The Nineteenth-Century Tug-of-War

The middle of the nineteenth century reveals a system in flux.

In 1837, under Van Buren, N retakes the lead.
In 1853, under Fillmore, O reclaims it.
In 1857, under Buchanan, N takes it back again.

The margins during this era are narrow, and leadership changes hands through incremental accumulation rather than dramatic surges. No letter establishes durable supremacy. The system oscillates.

This is the Alphabetic Reconstruction Period — unstable, competitive, unresolved.

The Roosevelt Realignment (1933)

The next decisive shift comes in 1933.

Under the second Roosevelt, O retakes the cumulative lead. Unlike earlier reversals, this one holds. For more than five decades, O remains on top.

The twentieth century does not invent O’s strength, but it consolidates it. Coolidge, Hoover and Roosevelt reinforce what had previously been contested ground. From 1933 forward, O governs the cumulative standings with quiet durability.

Other letters rise but do not displace it.

The Eisenhower Acceleration and the E Near-Miss

The closest challenge to O during its long reign came not from N, but from E.

The groundwork was laid by eight years under Eisenhower — the only instance in presidential history in which a single letter appears three times in a surname. No other administration has produced such concentrated orthographic reinforcement.

Those years produced a measurable compression of the gap between E and O. And that continued under Kennedy with his two E's. By the time Kennedy died, E had narrowed the difference to just 32 cumulative occurrences (53,378 to 53,346).

Had Kennedy completed his full term — and, speculatively, a second term — E would have overtaken O for the first time in American history and solidified its lead.

It is tempting to search for deeper significance in that near-miss.

But the data are dramatic enough without inventing motive for the alphabet.

E ultimately settles into a stable third position.

The Modern N Restoration (1987–Present)

In 1987, under Reagan, N retakes the cumulative lead.

This time, it does not relinquish it.

From that point forward — through Clinton, Bush, Obama, Trump, and beyond — N maintains its position at the top. What had once been a volatile rivalry stabilizes into a modern alignment.

As of the projected end of the current term in 2029, the standings are clear:

N: 67,786
O: 65,916
E: 59,190

The margin is not overwhelming, but it is steady.

After nearly two centuries of oscillation and mid-century consolidation under O, the system has returned to its founding configuration — N on top.

What Does This Reveal?

The early republic was volatile. The nineteenth century oscillated. The twentieth century consolidated. The late twentieth century realigned.

These are phrases historians already use to describe American political development.

Here, they apply equally well to cumulative orthography.

It would be irresponsible to claim deeper meaning. The letters accumulate because surnames contain them. The graph rises because time passes.

And yet, when viewed across 240 years, the pattern feels structured. A led once. O governed for decades. E nearly staged a coup. N reclaimed supremacy and has held it since 1987.

History is written by the winners.

Even when the winners are consonants.

cinema history class: curtains (1983)

The session: The Cold Can Kill Ya!
With plummeting temperatures, Keith shows us four movies with achingly cold settings

As always, there may be spoilers here. And the trailer may be NSFW and/or NSFL.

Week 2: Curtains (1983)
Directed by Richard Ciupa and Peter R. Simpson

My Level of Prior Knowledge:
Never heard of it.

Plot:
Thursday night at Cinema History Class brought us Curtains — but with a twist before the first frame even flickered. Keith, our usual ringmaster of celluloid mayhem, ceded the podium to his friend Chris Gullo, who does some acting but is also known as a film historian and author (with books on Peter Cushing, Donald Pleasance and others to his credit). More to the point, he recently wrote about Curtains for Dark Side magazine and was clearly champing at the bit to share his research. He did so with enthusiasm, context, and just enough behind-the-scenes intrigue to make the film’s rough edges feel like part of the legend. He even raffled off a vintage lobby poster. Bobbo won it. I’ll admit to a flicker of envy, but then I realized Bobbo will treasure it in a way I probably wouldn’t. The universe distributes ephemera wisely.

As for the film itself: it’s very good. Genuinely tense. The jump scares are plentiful enough to keep your shoulders up around your ears, but not so relentless that you never get to exhale. There’s a rhythm to the dread. And the imagery — especially that now-iconic skating scene with the doll-faced killer — is striking, eerie, and memorable. Even when the narrative wobbles, the visuals carry authority.

That said, the script doesn’t give us much to hang onto in terms of character. The actresses assembled for the audition blur together; their rivalries are sketched rather than etched. A stronger investment in who these women are might have elevated the body count into something more tragic than procedural. One performer who does stand out, as he almost always does, is John Vernon. Vernon brings that oily gravitas of his — cultured, manipulative, faintly amused — and you can’t take your eyes off him. Even when the movie falters, he doesn’t.

And falter it does, especially at the end. The finale is ambiguous in a way that left me more confused than intrigued. Not so much “Let’s ponder the implications” as “Wait, what exactly just happened?” As Chris explained in his talk, much of this unevenness stems from behind-the-scenes conflict between director Richard Ciupka and producer Peter R. Simpson. Simpson reportedly took a heavy editorial hand, reshaping scenes and even adding the ending — shot much later — that Ciupka didn’t want. In fact, Ciupka was so unhappy that he declined to have his name on the finished product; the film is credited to “Jonathan Stryker,” which amusingly is the name of the manipulative director character within the story. That tug-of-war also explains some of the more puzzling continuity glitches — including the moment when a body falls from a window and appears to execute a physics-defying 90-degree turn into another window. That wasn’t supernatural horror; it was post-production horror.

Still, for all its production scars, Curtains lingers. The atmosphere works. The set pieces work. The mask works. It’s the kind of flawed genre piece that invites discussion — which, in our little Thursday enclave, is half the fun anyway.

Joe missed this session, but he would have given the film a 10 and Chris Gullo’s presentation a 10. The raffle would have gotten a lower score — unless he won. In that case, it would have been a 10 too.

the crossover chicago needs

 Television keeps rebooting things that already ended properly. Meanwhile, one of the most structurally inevitable crossovers in TV history has never happened:

Married... with Children and Shameless.

They share a city. They share a worldview. They share a spiritual allergy to self-improvement.

And here’s the key: Married…with Children never had a real finale. It didn’t conclude. It just stopped in 1997. The Bundys were left wandering Chicago continuity without narrative supervision. Shameless ended — and in doing so, it killed Frank Gallagher.

Chicago now has a vacancy.

And Chicago does not tolerate a vacuum in dysfunction.

What Happened to the Bundys

The Bundy house survived decades. What it could not survive was property tax reassessment and a variable-rate mortgage Bud once described as “strategically aggressive liquidity optimization.”

Al described it differently.

“We didn’t lose the house. The house lost us. It couldn’t handle the pressure.”

Bud Bundy, improbably successful in crypto-security compliance, convinced his parents to extract equity. Then the market shifted. Then taxes rose. Then Al ignored mail.

“I don’t open envelopes,” Al explains. “That’s how they get you.”

Peggy refused to “downsize into moral surrender.” Kelly assumed escrow was a person. Bud called it “temporary dislocation.” Al called it:

“Living proof that America hates a man who once scored four touchdowns in a single game.”

Bud purchased a distressed two-flat on the South Side as a “cash-flow property with urban upside.” Al’s review:

“So we downgraded from a house we couldn’t afford to a neighborhood that can’t afford us.”

Bud also acquires the commercial note on the building housing the Alibi. Al finds this out the hard way.

“So my son doesn’t own the bar,” Al says. “He just owns the panic attached to it.”

The Gallaghers, Post-Frank

Frank Gallagher is gone. The Gallagher house still stands — stubborn, dented, defiant.

Fiona Gallagher returns to stabilize paperwork and destabilize herself. Lip is sober and tense. Ian and Mickey are married and combustible. Debbie is running three side hustles and one emotional deficit. Liam is the only adult within a five-mile radius.

Bud shows up to inspect his investment.

Al comes along. Al surveys the block.

“I like it. It’s like our old neighborhood — but honest about it.”

Inside the Gallagher house, Al studies the chaos.

“This isn’t neglect. This is efficiency. Why clean something you’re just going to disappoint again?”

Within weeks, Al has adopted Frank’s old stool at the Alibi.

“Relax,” Al tells the regulars. “I’m not replacing the guy. I’m just here to lower expectations.”

Fiona and Bud

Fiona meets Bud in his upgraded form: tailored suits, controlled tone, generational resentment. They bond over paternal disappointment. Al finds out.

“You’re dating my son?” Al says to Fiona. “That’s like trading in a broken appliance for a refurbished one.”

Kelly discovers the affair and arrives on the South Side in full influencer mode. She launches a lifestyle stream titled “Suburban Goddess Goes Urban.”

Al watches one episode.

“You know, Peg, if stupidity were electricity, we could power this block.”

Debbie immediately monetizes Kelly’s following. Lip distrusts Bud’s money. Al distrusts Bud’s existence.

“I raised him to be a failure. Now he’s a success. Where did I go wrong?”

Peggy Finds Her Climate

Peggy Bundy thrives. The Gallagher block runs on entropy, unpaid utilities, and creative denial. Peggy calls it “community.” She and Mickey bond instantly.

Peggy to Al:

“I finally found people who understand that housework is a social construct.”

Al replies:

“So is marriage. And yet here we are.”

Marcy and Carl: The Cougar Doctrine

Marcy D'Arcy meets Carl Gallagher. Carl is younger. Uniformed. Confident in the vague way authority sometimes is. Marcy frames it as mentorship. It escalates.

Jefferson objects. Marcy informs him she is “evolving.”

Al weighs in:

“Marcy trading in Jefferson for Carl? I guess she finally decided to date someone with arrest authority instead of just arrest potential.”

Carl, navigating midlife suburban ambition, asks Al for advice. Al considers this.

“Son, if a woman tells you she sees potential in you, run. Potential is what women see when they don’t like the current model.”

Liam writes a school essay titled Late Capitalism and the Migration of Sitcom Predators.

The Central Conflict

Bud restructures the Alibi’s lease. Al explodes.

“I don’t need a landlord. I need a liver.”

Bud pitches a neighborhood redevelopment scheme involving digital escrow and tax incentives. Al’s summary:

“So the plan is we fix everything by charging ourselves more?”

The deal unravels. Fiona nearly leaves again. Marcy files paperwork. Carl investigates a complaint that circles back to Bud. Kelly livestreams the collapse. Peggy orders takeout.

The Gallagher house remains theirs. The Alibi survives. The Bundys remain displaced. Al returns to his stool.

“You know what the difference is between me and Frank Gallagher?”
He takes a sip.
“Timing.”

Why This Isn’t Nostalgia

In the 1990s, the Bundys were exaggerated stagnation.

In the 2010s, the Gallaghers were exposed precarity.

In the 2020s, those aren’t different genres.

They’re neighbors.

Married…with Children never got a finale. Shameless lost its patriarch.

Chicago still has room for one more man sitting where responsibility should be.

Al Bundy walked so Frank Gallagher could fall down the stairs.

Now somebody has to keep the stool warm.

you always remember your first subway map

Last year the subway system introduced a new map — or perhaps it had already begun phasing it in before 2025 and I only noticed when the old one had mostly disappeared.

That old one — the map that replaced the 1972 Vignelli diagram — had been with us since 1979. Designed by Michael Hertz Associates, it became simply the subway map. It lasted more than forty-five years.

And yet, to me, the definitive New York subway map is still the Vignelli map.

Which is odd.

Because it was only in use for seven years.

Abstraction

The Vignelli map was beautiful — provided you already knew where you were going.

If you knew you needed the F to West 4th Street, it was perfect. The design was schematic, rational, almost electrical. Lines ran at 45- or 90-degree angles. The subway looked like a circuit board. It felt solvable.

It treated the subway as a system.

It did not treat New York as a city.

Distances were abstract. Central Park was a tidy shape. Boroughs were compressed or widened. Landmarks were mostly absent. If you were trying to understand where things actually were in relation to each other above ground, the map could mislead you.

I learned that the hard way.

Woodside and the Popsicle Sticks

Still during the Vignelli era, I decided I needed to go to an art supply store in Woodside to buy popsicle sticks for some craft project. I don’t remember how I figured it out, but I determined which stop on the 7 train was closest and concluded that it would be a short walk.

The map seemed to confirm this.

I got off the train and started walking.

And walking.

And walking.

Eventually I reached the store and bought my popsicle sticks, but the walk was much longer than I had anticipated. The map had flattened distance. Stations that appeared neatly spaced were not, in fact, equidistant in real life. And Queens, with its relatively sparse subway coverage compared to Manhattan, has a way of stretching space between stops.

The Vignelli map had made the trip look like a hop.

Reality was a hike.

It was a beautiful system diagram. It was not a pedestrian guide.

The Hertz Correction

The 1979 redesign tried to fix that. The Hertz map overlaid the subway lines onto something resembling actual geography. Shorelines curved. Subway lines curved. Parks looked like parks. You could approximate direction and distance.

It also introduced one of the system’s smartest ideas: trunk-line color coding through Midtown Manhattan.

The B, D and F were orange because they ran on the Sixth Avenue trunk.
The N, Q and R were yellow because they ran on Broadway.
The 1, 2 and 3 were red; the 4, 5, 6 green; the A, C, E blue.

The color didn’t belong to the letter. It belonged to the trunk.

Which meant the letters could change color.

The Q has not always been yellow. From 1988 to 2001, when it ran via Sixth Avenue, it was orange. The V —  which existed for just under a decade, from 2001 to 2010 — was orange for the same reason. The M used to be brown, part of the old Nassau Street trunk, before rerouting through Sixth Avenue turned it orange.

Even the Q’s name is historical shorthand. It descends from “QB” (“Brighton via Bridge”), alongside QT (“Brighton via Tunnel”) and QJ (“Brighton to Jamaica”). Historically, the Brighton Line in Brooklyn was the Q. I wish I could end this paragraph with the snarky observation that today’s Q doesn't go to Brighton anymore. But it does.

The W, despite what my memory occasionally insists, has always been yellow. Broadway. My recollections are not immune to rerouting.

The Loss of Purple

As a kid, I did not think in terms of trunk-line logic.

I thought in terms of identity. I thought of the F as my train.

The F used to be purple.

It was a beautiful purple. Distinct. Singular. Royal.

Then trunk-line standardization arrived and the F turned orange, joining the B and D. Meanwhile the E — which I irrationally regarded as a rival — remained blue (though a darker shade).

This felt like betrayal.

I understood that color now signified shared Manhattan infrastructure. But I also knew was that the F had lost something beautiful. The 7 train became purple, and it has remained so ever since.

Clutter and Compromise

The Hertz map’s weakness was the inverse of Vignelli’s. It tried to show everything. Geography. Water. Parks. Bus connections. Street grids. Transfers. It was useful — and sometimes cluttered.

The new map introduced in 2025 appears to be an attempt at compromise. It returns to schematic clarity — strong geometry, simplified layout — while preserving trunk-line color coding. Instead of a single thick orange band in Midtown, multiple orange services run in parallel. It is less geographic than Hertz, more geographic than Vignelli.

It tries to split the difference.

The First Map Is the Real Map

The Vignelli map lasted seven years. The Hertz map lasted more than forty-five.

And yet the Vignelli map is the one in my head.

It was the map in use when I first became fascinated with the subway — when tracing colored lines across boroughs and memorizing station names felt like decoding a secret system. It made the city look legible.

When I was young, I found it odd that the map wasn’t redesigned every few years. Why not refresh it like baseball cards? Why not issue new editions, with completely new designs?

It took adulthood to realize that redesigning infrastructure costs money. Stability matters. A transit map is not a collectible.

It is a working tool.

I’m not entirely convinced the system needed this latest redesign. But maps are arguments about what matters — clarity or fidelity, abstraction or realism, system or city.

In the end, the definitive subway map is the one you first learned to read — the one that made you believe the city could be understood.

Even if it occasionally left you walking much farther than expected for popsicle sticks in Woodside.