Tag: design

Categories
Reading Writing

The Starting Five I Keep

On November 25, 1963, every journalist in America was at Arlington Cemetery covering the state funeral of John F. Kennedy. Jimmy Breslin went to find the grave digger.

His name was Clifton Pollard. He was paid $3.01 an hour. He had been called in on his day off because the foreman thought he was the best they had, and the foreman was right about that. Breslin spent the morning with him while the ceremony unfolded a few hundred yards away — the dignitaries, the riderless horse, the flag folded into a triangle and handed to a widow. Pollard ate a ham sandwich and kept working.

The piece Breslin filed that afternoon is still taught in journalism schools sixty years later. Not because it covered the funeral better than anyone else. Because it didn’t cover the funeral at all. It found the true subject by ignoring the announced one.

That instinct — turn away from the obvious, walk toward the unglamorous specific, trust that the universal is hiding there — is the one idea I’ve returned to more than any other. It shows up in two very different writers who occupy, in my mind, the same position on the roster.

Breslin got there through deadline fury and a saloon-bred instinct for where the real story was breathing. He didn’t theorize about it. He just did it, on a deadline, in a city that rewarded the loud and the fast. John McPhee got to the same place by an entirely different route: patience, structure, and a willingness to spend six months learning how canoes are made or what happens to a piece of shad on its way up the Delaware River. Breslin worked like a man catching a cab. McPhee worked like a man building a cathedral.

But the underlying claim is identical. If you stay with a specific, unglamorous subject long enough — if you resist the pull toward the obvious center — it will eventually yield something that couldn’t have been reached directly. Pollard and his shovel. The orange grower and his grove. The nuclear physicist who also happens to be a canoe builder. The method is the same. Look where no one else is looking. Wait longer than feels reasonable. Write what you find.

This is one player, really. Just wearing two different jerseys.

The second seat belongs to Wright Thompson — not a single book but a stance. The premise that the most revealing place in any story isn’t the event itself but the moment before and after it, when the subject is alone with something they haven’t yet put into words. Every piece in this tradition is quietly asking: what is this person carrying that they can’t say out loud? It’s a question that turns out to apply well beyond sportswriting. It applies to most things worth writing about.

The third is whatever the Apple design era taught about constraint and clarity. Not nostalgia — something more durable. The idea that removing something can be an act of confidence. That the most useful things often appear to be doing less than they are. This one surfaces constantly in writing, in argument, in the editing pass where you decide what the piece actually needs versus what it accumulated along the way. Features are easy to add. Knowing what to cut requires a different kind of certainty.

The fourth is the philosophy embedded in spaced repetition — not the algorithm but the claim underneath it. That knowledge you don’t revisit isn’t really yours. That understanding decays on a predictable schedule whether you acknowledge it or not. The honest response isn’t anxiety about this; it’s the habit of return. Going back to the same passage, the same idea, the same question on a different day, and finding it has changed — or finding that you have.

The fifth seat shifts. That’s probably the right design. Four constants and one that evolves is roughly the correct ratio for a starting lineup that has to play in different eras. Right now that seat belongs to the question of what AI does to a practiced human sensibility — whether it erodes it by substitution or clarifies it by contrast. Earlier it was held by a certain kind of systems thinking. Before that, something else. The player who earns that spot is always the one asking the question the current moment most needs answered.

The coach who wins five championships doesn’t do it with the same roster. But he does it with the same philosophy. The starting five aren’t the players who happened to be good once. They’re the ones who keep earning their minutes regardless of what the season throws at you.

Breslin knew where to find Clifton Pollard because he’d been looking in that direction his whole career. The skill wasn’t the story. The skill was knowing that the story was never where everyone else was standing.

That’s the one I keep coming back to.

Categories
Architecture Infrastructure

The Architecture of the Indestructible

We are conditioned to look for the center of things. When we try to understand an organization, we ask for an organizational chart. When we look at a nation, we look to its capital. Traditional architecture—whether of a building, a company, or an army—relies on a classic playbook: a strong hub, radiating outward. You find the center, you secure it, and the system holds.

But what happens when you try to decapitate an enemy, or a technology, that has no head?

In 1964, a brilliant engineer named Paul Baran sat at his desk at the RAND Corporation, trying to solve a Cold War nightmare: How do you maintain a communications network after a catastrophic nuclear strike? Baran realized that traditional networks were centralized—like a wheel with spokes. If you destroy the hub in the center, every single spoke becomes useless.

His solution was the distributed network, the foundational blueprint for what would eventually become the Internet.

“Under the proposed system, each station would need to be connected to only a few of its nearest neighbors… The system would be highly reliable, even if a large fraction of the stations were destroyed.”

Baran mathematically proved that if you remove the center, the edges don’t die. They simply reroute. A few decades later, telecom engineers used a remarkably similar logic to build cellular telephone networks. Instead of one massive, high-power radio tower serving an entire city, they broke the terrain into a grid of small, low-power cells. If one tower goes offline, the network degrades gracefully rather than collapsing. It bends, but it refuses to break.

There is a profound, poetic irony buried here. The United States government originally funded Baran’s research to create a distributed network so that its centralized monolith could survive. Decades later, asymmetric adversaries across the globe adopted that exact architectural philosophy for their physical defense doctrines—creating “Mosaic Defense” systems designed specifically so that when you destroy the center, the edges keep fighting.

They copied our homework to survive our strength.

I find myself thinking about this tension far beyond the realms of military strategy or software engineering. It is a metaphor for how we construct our lives. We often build centralized lives—anchored entirely to a single identity, a single career, or a single institution. We project a monolith of strength to the world. But monoliths are brittle. When the center is struck, the whole architecture crumbles.

The lesson of our modern architecture is becoming increasingly clear, whether you are managing a network, building an organization, or navigating the quiet complexities of a human life. The fragile monolith is an illusion of safety.

The future belongs to the web that knows how to reroute.

Categories
Apple Business

The Architecture of Subtraction

Hold an iPhone in your hand, or run your fingers along the cold, machined edge of a MacBook. What you are feeling isn’t just glass and aluminum; you are feeling the physical manifestation of a thousand invisible rejections.

We are conditioned to think of creation as an additive process. But true institutional excellence operates in reverse. It is an act of relentless, unsentimental subtraction.

A few years ago, Tim Cook articulated what became known as the “Cook Doctrine.” It is meant to answer the existential question of what makes Apple, Apple. Reading through it, what strikes me isn’t the corporate ambition, but the brutal, uncompromising geometry of its choices.

We believe that we’re on the face of the Earth to make great products, and that’s not changing. We’re constantly focusing on innovating. We believe in the simple, not the complex. We believe that we need to own and control the primary technologies behind the products we make, and participate only in markets where we can make a significant contribution.

We believe in saying no to thousands of projects so that we can really focus on the few that are truly important and meaningful to us. We believe in deep collaboration and cross-pollination of our groups, which allow us to innovate in a way that others cannot. And frankly, we don’t settle for anything less than excellence in every group in the company, and we have the self-honesty to admit when we’re wrong and the courage to change.

The gravity of that doctrine doesn’t live in the pursuit of “great products.” Everyone claims to want that. The gravity lives in the tension between wanting to do everything and having the discipline to do almost nothing.

“Saying no to thousands of projects” is easy to write on a slide. It is agonizing to practice in reality. It means looking at a perfectly good idea—perhaps even a highly profitable idea—and killing it because it dilutes the core mission. It is the architectural equivalent of leaving vast amounts of empty space in a room so that the few pieces of furniture inside it can actually breathe.

I think about the times in my own career when I lacked that specific kind of courage. I have held onto projects that had long since lost their spark, simply because of the sunk costs. I have said yes to interesting distractions that slowly eroded my focus on the essential work. We dilute our attention not because we intend to fail, but because the alternative—staring at a promising path and refusing to walk down it—feels entirely unnatural.

That is where Cook’s point about “self-honesty” becomes the linchpin. You cannot admit you are wrong unless you have created a culture where the truth outranks the ego. The deep collaboration Cook speaks of isn’t just about sharing resources; it’s about sharing the burden of that honesty. It is a collective agreement to not settle, to look at a nearly finished product and have the courage to say, this isn’t right yet.

Ultimately, the Cook Doctrine isn’t a strategy for building computers. It is an observation about human nature. The future is only guaranteed for those who can afford to survive the present—and survival demands knowing exactly what you are not.

The chaos isn’t an obstacle to the mission; it is the environment in which the mission earns its meaning.

Excellence is not just about what you build. It is also about what you are willing to destroy.

Categories
Interstate 280 San Francisco/California San Jose

The Scenic Route Home

“In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art.”

It is a strange paradox that in the heart of Silicon Valley—a place defined by the ephemeral, the digital, and the instantaneous—a cherished shared experience is a physical ribbon of highway that hasn’t changed much in fifty years.

My post from last April, “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway,” has recently found a new wave of readers. I’ve been asking myself: Why? Why does a blog post about Interstate 280, written by a retiree exploring local history, resonate so deeply right now?

Perhaps it’s because I-280 is more than just a commute. As I noted in the original piece, even Sunset Magazine in 1967 recognized it as “a modern and scenic boulevard.” It was a bold claim for a freeway, yet it stuck. While its sibling, US 101, is a clogged artery of billboard-choked utility, 280 feels like a deep breath. It is the “scenic route” we are lucky enough to take right in our own backyard.

There is a powerful nostalgia in that drive. We all remember the sign that used to sit in the median near Cupertino—the one that literally proclaimed it “The World’s Most Beautiful Freeway”—before it vanished. We remember the way the fog rolls over the Santa Cruz Mountains, spilling into the crystal bowl of the reservoir.

But I think the recent interest goes deeper than pretty scenery. We are living in an era of rapid, often disorienting change. I used ChatGPT to help research the history of that road, a small testament to how AI is weaving into our daily inquiries. Yet, the road itself remains a constant. It was designed by engineers like Othmar Ammann and planners who chose the harder, more expensive route through the foothills rather than paving over El Camino Real. They chose beauty over pure efficiency.

That choice resonates today. In a world optimized for speed and engagement, 280 is a reminder that infrastructure can be art. It connects the headquarters of the companies building our future (Apple, Google, Meta) with the wild, golden hills of California’s past. It is a physical timeline of the Peninsula.

Maybe we are revisiting this post because we are craving that balance. We want to know that even as we rush toward the future at freeway speeds, we can still look out the window and see something timeless, something beautiful, something that reminds us where we are.

Categories
Art and Artists Living

Occupying the Artificial

There is a distinct texture to the modern shopping mall – polished tile, recycled air, and the relentless, humming promise that satisfaction is just a credit card swipe away. They’re designed to be transient; a place of movement, transaction, and eventual departure. You are not supposed to stay. You are certainly not supposed to live at the mall.

But recently, I came across a recommendation from Kevin Kelly about the documentary Secret Mall Apartment (currently on Netflix), which chronicles a band of artists who did exactly that. For years, they maintained a hidden sanctuary inside a busy mall.

“It is way more interesting and inspiring than first appears. It was a bold work of art, and I came away seeing art as a way of life.” — KK

This was art as an act of occupation. These artists didn’t just build a set; they altered their reality. They took a space designed for public consumption and carved out a private, human intimacy. They looked at the rigid architecture of the commercial world and saw a loophole, a blank canvas hidden behind the drywall.

Perhaps we should ask: Where are the secret apartments in our own lives?

We live in structures—both physical and digital—that are designed by others. It is easy to feel that our role is simply to navigate these spaces as they were intended. But the artist looks at the “mall” of daily existence and asks, “Where can I build something that is solely mine?”

Art as a “way of life” means we stop waiting for permission to be creative. It means we stop waiting for the studio or the gallery. For that “special” time or place. Instead we find the hollow spaces in our schedules, our environments, and our relationships, and we fill them with intention.

The sheer audacity of living in a mall was about a refusal to accept the world merely as it is presented – a reclaiming of individual agency.

Perhaps the most inspiring art in our lives isn’t what hangs on a wall, but how we choose to inhabit the “rooms” we walk through every day.

Categories
Inspiration Living Reflection

Exploring the Seams of Freedom

“All of us have little fissures in our lives that provide us greater than normal moments of freedom. You play the seams when you identify those moments and seize them.”

Neal King (American Ramble)

We often conceive of our lives as following fairly rigid scripts and routines. We wake up, go to work or school, come home, eat dinner, maybe squeeze in some hobbies or time with loved ones, then go to bed and repeat. The cycles feel inescapable, like train tracks laid out before us.

But if we look closer, there are tiny fissures and fault lines running through even the most regimented of daily grinds. Moments where the iron grip of obligation loosens ever so slightly. A traffic jam that makes you late, forcing you to take an alternate route. A cancelled meeting that clears an unexpected hour in your calendar. A power outage that shuts down the office and sends everyone home early. A flat tire that happens at the worst possible time and place – like happened to me yesterday!

These are the seams that Neil King refers to in the quotation. Little rips and tears in the fabric of our routines that create momentary pockets of freedom. Openings where the rules don’t quite apply and we can slip through the cracks of the scheduled order.

The key, as King notes, is to first identify these seams when they occur, and then seize them rather than letting them pass by unnoticed or unremarked upon. It’s about being present enough to your circumstances to recognize when one of these fissures opens up, and then brave enough to diverge from the mapped out path to explore it.

After all, some of life’s greatest adventures and discoveries have happened during these “off script” moments. Yesterday, my conversation with a tow truck driver opened my eyes to the steps he took to fend off a mountain lion attack on a 5 AM run in the dark! I hope I never have to apply his techniques but I did find our conversation about his encounter fascinating!

Of course, these serendipitous detours and unplanned paths are easy to romanticize after the fact, when we know they turned out well. In the moment when the seams first crack open, it can be daunting to jump through them into the unknown. Sometimes we have to but our ingrained instinct is to stick to our set schedule, to get back on course as quickly as possible.

There’s comfort and safety in routines. Seizing those fissures when they present themselves means trading certainty for adventure, the familiarity of a well-worn groove for the risk and exhilaration of going off road into the unknown. It requires being able to quiet that voice of fear inside us that clings to control and embrace one of spontaneity and serendipity in where the detour might lead.

The rewards of following those detours down their winding paths are often worth it. While not every seam we slip through will result in a life-altering event, they allow us to break up the monotony, to experience something different from our repetitive routine, even if just for a little while. Those moments add texture and vibrancy to our days. They’re the asides and ad-libs to the main scripts we follow. Often they provide those special moments we vividly remember and want to share with others.

So keep your eyes peeled for those little fissures and unexpected openings in your routine. Don’t just impatiently wait for life to reset to its default settings once these moments arise. Seize them while you can and see where they lead you. You might just stumble into a beloved new local cafe, or finally muster the courage to start writing, or meet someone who changes your life’s trajectory and opens even more new possibilities.

The seams are there, waiting to be played whenever we’re bold enough to follow their diverging paths. All we have to do is watch for the fissures and be willing to step through into the open spaces of freedom they reveal. Who knows what new experiences and challenges await us on the other side? What new learning might result?