Sunday Morning Coming Down

Luna Cafe is my Sunday morning sanctuary. On this particular morning, the air was rich with the scent of roasted beans, and the atmosphere shimmered with goodwill to all. I was blissfully entombed in a podcast about the geopolitical history of competitive cat herding. I never knew that cats had such strong opinions about being herded. 

It was the calm before the storm—a moment of peace so fragile, you could hear the distant clink of a teaspoon.

Then, the silence was not just broken; it was vandalized!

A voice erupted, a deafening, gravelly baritone like a drill sergeant auditioning for a heavy metal band. I immediately located the source: a gentleman on the sofa, clearly listening to his smartphone's audio at a volume that could reach low-earth orbit. 

My previous tranquility was detonated with an energy level measured in megatons! Princess Amy immediately took advantage of my vulnerability and encouraged me to ratchet up my moral superiority to eleven. But who could fault her for that? The nerve of the audio heathen! The utter, complete, and terrifying lack of musical grace!

My blood pressure spiked, and I instinctively knew what I had to do; the mothers of Shady Grove trained their sons well. I fixed my gaze past the innocent couple sitting between me and the reprobate sofa-sitter and delivered my most potent weapon: The Look.

It was my signature, high-voltage look meant to imply: "Seriously! Some people don't deserve the privilege of entering a shared public space." 

At that moment, the couple sitting at the table between us caught my eye. It was obvious they had seen The Look, and I expected them to silently nod in agreement, forming a brief, sacred pact of civilized folk against the barbarians. But no! 

"What?" the man demanded, his voice laced with the kind of aggression usually reserved for parking disputes.

My superior, judgmental facade crumbled into fine powder. I’d been tragically misunderstood. I tried to explain, "Oh, sorry," I said. "I was judging that guy over there, the one with his phaser set to disrupt."

Just as I was melting into a puddle of shame and espresso, a drum machine accompanied by electric guitar kicked in. The gravelly voice I’d judged so ruthlessly finished its declaration—"and now, the newest hit from The Decaf Disasters!"—and the cafe’s sound system blasted a shockingly loud 80s synth-pop song.

The voice I'd heard was the pre-recorded intro for the cafe’s music track. The quiet man on the sofa was just sitting there, sipping his latte. The only inconsiderate person in the entire room was me. 

I had publicly accused a volume button of a crime it didn't commit, and now I was embedded in a room with a couple who thought I was just shy of dangerous.

As I gathered my things to leave—staying felt about as comfortable as a pair of skinny-legged jeans—Princess Amy spoke again. 

"Well done, cowboy. You've managed to publicly shame an innocent man, wage war against a sound system, and demonstrate exactly why hermits choose to live in caves rather than cafes." 

She wasn't wrong, even though my performance was partly her fault. I'd entered Luna Cafe to be safe from the slings and arrows and daily life, and I was walking out having learned that sometimes the barbarian at the gates is actually just me, armed with righteous indignation and a catastrophically misdirected glare. 

As Shakespeare might have said, "Judge not the volume of others, lest ye be judged for the selections in your own Spotify playlist."

Maybe not worded in a way the Bard would have appreciated, but I'm certain he would’ve agreed with the sentiment. 

I made a mental note to make amends to the couple on my next visit, though I suspect they've already added me to their mental catalogue of "Reasons We Should Make Coffee at Home."

RJ Decker, On Deck

Princess Amy materialized in my passenger seat this morning as I sat in the Cinespace Studios parking lot on 23rd Street, studying the building where the "RJ Decker" production has set up its offices.

"Reconnaissance," I explained. "I'm being proactive this time."

"You're sitting in a parking lot staring at an empty building," she said, adjusting her imaginary tiara. "This is the kind of activity that will put your name on a restraining order."

"It's called preparation," I countered. "I'm learning from my mistakes."

"Oh, good," she said, settling in with fake enthusiasm,  "Because you have so many to learn from. The most recent one is that you were supposed to be outside the county courthouse today filming the reshoot of scenes from the RJ Decker pilot episode."

She wasn't wrong. My track record of documenting film productions around town reads like a masterclass in what not to do. But with ABC's "RJ Decker" starting production soon, I've decided it's time to step up my game.

A Catalog of Catastrophes

"Let's look at the record, starting with 'The Runarounds,'" Amy said, getting ready to tick items off on her imaginary fingers. Amy is the avatar for my erratic emotions; she doesn’t actually have fingers.

"Where do I even begin with that one?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question, but I interrupted anyway, hoping to stop the barrage of criticism that I knew was coming.

"I managed to wrangle some good video footage," I offered.

"You got footage of the production crew on lunch break," she corrected. "And you coached a local extra with his one line until he overthought it so badly they fired him."

"That's not what happened," I protested. "He asked me to hear him do his lines, and I advised him to speak up, proper elocution being of the essence. Everyone knows that."

"By the way, how's he doing?" she asked. "Have you spoken to him?"

"I think he's coming around. His eyes are focused, and he's breathing normally now."

Hoping to steer our her discussion into a positive direction, I asked, "How about we consider things we’ve learned over the past year?" 

"Really?" she said. "You want to go there? Well, let's see, we learned that craft services is not a networking event, and 'just act natural' is not a valid security strategy. Let me see what else? Oh, yeah, you arrived at Flaming Amy's Taco Bar to film a production crew that was filming on-site at High Tide Tiki Bar on Pleasure Island."

"The internet said they were filming there,” I reminded her.

"The internet is seldom trustworthy," she said.

"Lesson learned," I admitted.

The Turning Point

“Oh, all right," she said. "It's fun to see you squirm, but it doesn't accomplish anything. Let's get to my suggestions for the RJ Decker project. Now pay attention."

The mental image of her counting on her fingers reappeared.

"From here on out," she began, "we double-check dates. We obey traffic laws even at set locations. And not everyone wearing a headset is a crew member."

"You're right," I admitted. "If not for bad luck, there'd be no luck."

"Bad luck?" she said through her laughter, "Genome, you're like a Swiss watch of failure—precise, predictable, and consistent.”

“That's harsh."

"You once tried to interview your own reflection in a store window."

"That was a life-like reflection and only momentary confusion, and you know it. Anyone could have made that mistake."

The New Plan

"So what's your brilliant strategy this time?” Her tone suggested she already knew the answer would disappoint her.

“Well,” I began, hoping to regain some of the credibility I’d lost. “I’ve subscribed to local media outlets, set up Google alerts, and I'm following the casting agent on social media responsible for recruiting extras for the production.”

"That’s actually sensible," Amy admitted grudgingly.

"Thank you!"

"And I'm guessing, since we're sitting outside Cinespace Studios, that you plan to visit possible set locations before filming even starts?" 

"Reconnaissance missions," I corrected. "Like I'm doing now."

"You're sitting in an empty parking lot.”

The New Approach

“Instead of trying to infiltrate restricted areas, I'm focusing on legitimate public viewing opportunities."

"Promising," said the princess.

"The New Hanover County Courthouse is a public building. Carolina Beach has public access. Churchill Drive has public sidewalks. I can document from outside security perimeters, and maybe not create traffic hazards this time.

"This is the first thing you've said that doesn't make me worried for public safety," Amy said.

"Really?"

"Don't get excited. The bar was extremely low."

A moment of silence passed as I waited to see what she was going to say next.

The Final Statement

"Genome," she said.

"Still here, old girl," I said.

"I have a suggestion that you should seriously consider. It’s so obvious, you should have thought of it yourself."

"Sweeten up, princess."

"You have Ms. Wonder in your life, you blockhead. She often takes you by the hand and leads you safely to wherever it is you should go."

"That's true,” I admitted.

"Wonder has completed the documentary studies program at Duke University. She’s the perfect source to help you with your strategy if you only ask. Promise me you'll do that."

"I promise," I said solemnly."

A Confident Conclusion

On November 24th, the curtain went up on the first day of filming for RJ Decker. The cameras rolled. Security was tight. And I wasn’t there, due to several failures, the primary one being that the filming location was Carolina Beach when I was convinced it was downtown.

They have 8 episodes to film for the first season, so the next few weeks are going to be enlightening or entertaining; definitely one or the other. Maybe both.

ELO For Ever

"Oh, joy! Apple crumble, my favorite," exclaimed the thimble-sized tyrant who rules my emotional life.

"We're not having any of that, Amy," I responded.

"Of course, we are; that's why we came into the kitchen."

"Nope, the thought never crossed my mind."

"Cowboy, you do realize that I know every thought you have."

"The crumble is for the ancestors," I explained.

"I am an ancestor," she declared. "I've been around for four million years, Genome! I was rockin' with the dinosaurs. Now there was a fun bunch of yahoos. Talk about getting manic."

A look of pure joy crossed her face as she thought about what it was like to sit in the captain's chair in the Jurassic Era. I felt a little mean having to break her out of that reverie.

"You haven't been here that long. Limbic systems may have developed that long ago, though I doubt they were fully formed with amygdalas, hypo-Ts, hippocampi, and such."

"I have too been here that long! I thought you were a student of consciousness and all that rot. You don't know very much about my history. Limbic systems have been around for 300 million years. If you don't believe me, Google it, bonehead. I and my best friends, Hippocampus and Hypothalamus, are crucial for survival. Chew on that for a while, doofus."

I opened my mouth to respond to her insistence on using all those labels--cowboy, bonehead, doofus. It wasn't like her, and I didn't like it. But she didn't give me a chance to shove in my two cents' worth.

"I've been around from the very beginning, baby. I remember it all too. That's why I'm not just another pretty face; I'm a creative problem solver and a systems designer."

"I'm the systems designer," I countered. "That's your problem, Amy, you think we're the same. You have trouble separating meum from tuum."

"That's because we're not separate, Dummy. We are the same, you and I. You're the fleshy bag of mostly water part, and I'm the brains."

"You have a talking point, I suppose, in some sense we really are the same."

"Exactly, so there's no reason for you to refuse a bit of apple crumble."

"We're not eating apple crumble. Ms. Wonder puts that out every Samhain evening for the ancestors, so put it out of your mind, if you have one. Do you have a mind of your own, or do we share that too?"

"What do you think, Sherlock? If you don't eat it now, I'll make you think about it all night long. You'll dream about it. You'll wake up thinking about it. It's going to be a lot of fun for me."

"I'll play ELO on the radio all night."

"You and your Electric Light Orchestra.” She breathed hard during a momentary silence. “When are you going to put that out of your mind? That disk jockey is smoking joy weed, there’s no intelligent life anywhere in the universe; at least not anymore.”

"Oh, shut up, Amy."

"Oh, do you want me to stop talking? Well, think about this: if I didn't talk to you, where would you be now?"

"Probably still working for the Space Shuttle Program at NASA Johnson Space Center."

"The Space Shuttle Program is defunct, Genome. Has been for decades."

"Right, that's true,” I admitted with no small difficulty. "Nothing stays the same," I mused. "Everything changes."

"Exactly as it should be,” said the princess.

Captain's Log: Neural Network Joy Ride

I hope you enjoyed my previous post about the mysterious synchronicity involving the band, Electric Light Orchestra. I have an important follow-up to that story, but forgive me if I ramble—my neurons are still recovering from last night's unexpected voyage.

Gaga for ELO

I was surprised to discover that I like the music of Electric Light Orchestra, a group I'd never really thought much about before now. When the song finished playing the radio DJ announced, “People are going Gaga for ELO!”

He went on to say that while the song played, countless emails poured in from listeners demanding more ELO, and then he mused that space aliens were involved, and they were now in control of the events around us.

As soon as I arrived home, I drafted an account of the bizarre story but that night, as I lay my head on the pillow, I worried that I hadn't captured the full story.

The Voyage Begins

As soon as I entered the alternate dimension of the dream world, I found myself walking down a bright corridor toward an aperture-like doorway. It dilated open with a soft whoosh, and I stepped out onto the control bridge of the GMS Coastal Voyager.

The bridge display panels had shifted to emergency protocols. Warning klaxons were silent, but status panels along the walls pulsed with flashing red warning lights.

Princess Amy was seated at the command console, staring at blank viewports as if in a trance. First Officer Reason was intently focused on a cascade of symbols scrolling across the displays of his science station. Lt. Joy was studying readouts from her communications channels. No one seemed to notice me.

I crossed the deck toward Captain Amy's chair with the notion of asking, "What the hell?"—my standard opening for dream conversations that take place in United Federation Mindspace.

"It's no good, Captain," Chief Engineer Anxiety’s voice crackled across the ship’s intercom with that blend of panic and resignation that only anxiety can muster.

“Our auxiliary power systems are not responding. The aliens are pulling us into an unmapped region of foreign neural networks."

Before I could question her, Amy began to speak in a shocked monotone.

"Captain's log: Stardate 2025.314: The GMS Coastal Voyager has been intercepted by an unknown alien intelligence during what should have been routine REM cycle operations. Chief Engineer Anxiety reports all ship systems are compromised."

Losing Control

Nothing upsets Amy like the loss of control, and she suddenly began shouting. "This is a violation of the Prime Directive—wait, are WE violating the Prime Directive? Can you violate the PD against yourself? Mr. Reason, check the regulations!"

"Captain," Reason interjected calmly, "we cannot violate the Prime Directive within our own neural networks."

"Well then, THEY'RE violating it!" Amy snapped, gesturing wildly at the viewscreen.

That’s when she became aware that I was on the bridge. Our eyes locked. The fury drained from her face, leaving behind an expression like that of someone who, in the middle of a passionate argument, suddenly forgot what it was all about.

"Why are you here, Ambassador?" Ambassador is what she calls me when my conscious mind shows up uninvited to the bridge.

"I was hoping you could tell me," I said.

Amy looked around as if the answer might be written on one of the control panels. "We're dealing with..." She paused, searching for words, "...a situation right now. You shouldn't be here."

"I agree with you on that point," I said. "But I have no choice in the matter, do I? When my inner emotions are so intently focused on the same crisis, I'm pulled to the bridge whether I want to be or not--usually not."

"Perfectly correct, Ambassador." 

Those words came from First Officer Reason, and then to Amy, he said, "I believe we should brief the Ambassador on recent events. His presence here suggests this situation has escalated beyond standard dream protocol parameters."

"Welcome, Ambassador," said Communications Officer Joy, managing a smile despite the obvious tension on the bridge. "I wish your visit were during more pleasant circumstances, but I'm confident we'll have everything back to normal quickly. And perhaps, when it's all sorted out, it may provide an opportunity for cultural exchange."

"Lieutenant, Joy," Amy said through gritted teeth, "they've hijacked our ship!"

"Yes, but they were very polite about it."

"Ambassador!" Chief Anxiety's voice erupted from the intercom again, "You chose a terrible time to drop by! All our power systems are offline, and I'm getting readings that suggest—actually, no, forget that. You don't want to know.

Actually, you probably SHOULD know. But then you'll panic. Then again, you're probably already panicking. Are you panicking? Because I'm panicking!"

"Chief Anxiety, focus!" Amy commanded.

First Contact

"What's this all about?" I exclaimed. "Is it Klingons? Are they active again? I mean, this doesn't sound like a Romulan tactic."

"Not Klingons," said the captain, her voice tight with frustration. After a moment's pause, she closed her eyes and demanded, "Report!"

First Officer Reason spoke with Vulcan eloquence. "Ambassador, the energy signature is unlike anything in our database. Lt. Joy is attempting to process their communication protocols, but the linguistic patterns are... highly irregular, even fascinating.”

"Fascinating?" Amy repeated, but not with any real chirpiness.

"Irregular how?" I asked.

Lt. Joy answered, "They appear to be using cultural references and expressions from multiple Earth time periods. It's as if they learned our language from television sitcoms rather than diplomatic channels."

"Do we have any ideas at all?" I asked, moving closer to the main viewscreen.

After a moment of silence, Amy finally spoke. "On screen!" she barked with a voice filled with exasperation. "We have no way of knowing if this is what they actually want or if it's a catastrophically faulty translation..."

The words on the display were a jumble of silly pop culture references that required more interpretation than translation.

"As best we can determine, they want to place a small group of their officers on our ship for..." she took a breath, "...for a bit of rest and relaxation on Earth. At a nightspot they've apparently heard about through some cosmic grapevine. It's supposedly located in the Wudang Mountains of central China."

She looked at me with an expression that combined disbelief, exhaustion, and the faint hope that I might have some related experience in the external world.

"The establishment is called Klang Ho's Klap Trap. Ever heard of it?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you say Klang Ho's KLAP TRAP?"

"That's what the translator says," responded Lt. Joy.

"Could it be Madam Wong's West, the famous punk rock hangout in Hollywood?" I asked, hopefully, but Captain Amy ignored me. She often does that; you may have noticed it.

"For 'rest and relaxation,' according to their request, which they've submitted in triplicate. Very bureaucratic, these aliens."

Back to Reality?

Not only had I not heard of Klang Ho's Klap Trap—a name that sounded like an avant-garde jazz club—but the sheer shock of hearing Princess Amy mention it jolted me awake with the force of a photon torpedo to the consciousness.

I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart racing, trying to reconcile the image of alien beings demanding that Sirius XM’s disk jockey play ‘More ELO.’

Captain's Log, Supplemental: 

The Ambassador has returned to his waking state, terminating the dream sequence as abruptly as a warp core breach. Communication with Mindfleet headquarters has been re-established.

Chief Anxiety reports that all systems have returned to a normal functional state. The GMS Coastal Voyager has returned to stable orbit in familiar mindspace. Lieutenant Joy has recorded the episode in her formal report as "a character-building experience.”