The Art of Making a Living

When Ms. Wonder found herself without her trusty day job, she faced the challenging but exciting task of finding a new way to earn a living from her photography. As a passionate artist, she wasn't abandoning her camera—she was going all-in.

We settled at our usual window table in the Circular Journey Cafe, armed with notepads and open minds. She turned to me, knowing my reputation for innovative (if not always practical) ideas. 

"Okay," Ms. Wonder said, tapping her pen against her notebook. "I've come up with three solid ideas to generate income from my photography."

I nodded enthusiastically, eager to share my wisdom—honed through years of occasionally brilliant, although mostly ridiculous, schemes.

 "Let's do this," I said, remembering how Beignet often used that line to shake me out of procrastination. 

She took a deep breath and laid out her first suggestion with an artist's precision.

"I could offer limited edition prints," she explained. "Each series just 10 signed, numbered copies. With the right marketing, I could set premium prices."

I leaned back, impressed. "That's solid," I nodded with pretend gravitas, "but why limit yourself to ship photography? You could sell...," and I waved an arm in a dramatic flourish.

"Oh, careful," I said to the customer, who had to duck my waving arm. “Nice save!” I said, referring to her balancing act that saved most of her coffee. Ms. Wonder watched with wide-eyed interest as I finished. 

"You could sell prints of the coffee stains from our brainstorming sessions!" I suggested. "Those random spills captured in all their abstract glory. People pay premium prices for that kind of 'raw' artistry."

Wonder blinked twice, and I thought I saw a lip move as though considering a smile. "So the messier the spill," she said, "the higher the price?"

"Exactly. Performance art. Pure chaos in a cup. All the rage."

She took a sharp breath. "I'm... going to let that marinate."

My mood was moving toward manic, knowing my moment had arrived to shine. I'm all about spreading goodness and light, and even happier when I can add value to boot.

"Another idea," Wonder continued, "is hosting online photography workshops. Tips on creating abstract compositions, stories behind my work, even one-on-one sessions."

I nodded approvingly. "Practical. I love it. But let's take it further." I tapped my pencil against my chin before announcing my brilliant concept.

"Why not combine photography with international travel? Teach people to capture foreign landscapes—obviously, only the affluent can participate. You could charge even more."

"I have a different idea," Wonder said, setting down her coffee, "I could create a photo book of local scenes. I've built quite a collection of Wilmawood's hidden corners. I could pitch it to local boutiques and to the visitor center."

"Now we're talking!" I exclaimed. "But think bigger. Why not a series where each book comes with a tiny vial of authentic Cape Fear River water? Maybe include a scratch-and-sniff section?"

Wonder tilted her head, expression caught between horror and amusement. "So... tourists can smell fish while looking at my artistic interpretations of the river?"

"Exactly! Sensory immersion! They'll remember that experience forever."

She sighed, gathering her notebook. "I think I'll stick with my original ideas. Limited prints, workshops, and the photo book—minus the smells."

"You're missing a golden opportunity," I insisted. "At least consider my coffee stain art concept. I'm ready to serve them up whenever you're ready.

Wonder smiled, patting my hand.  She opened her mouth as if to speak but apparently decided to give it a miss. We sat in companionable silence for a few moments, each of us considering our respective ideas. 

“Alright,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “I think we both have our work cut out for us.”

“Ok," I said, but I have one last suggestion. Give some thought to underwater photography of the ships in the harbor."

The Great Debate

"Duck and cover," said a familiar voice as dawn slipped through my bedroom window.

"Stop that!" I told Princess Amy, who has recently taken to waking me with meaningless greetings every morning.

My dreams faded as I adjusted to the waking world and realized that, in about a minute, Ms. Wonder would rise in all her glory and deliver the morning weather report—to prepare me for our morning constitutional.

"It's a balmy 68 degrees with clear skies," she announced right on cue. "Let me remind you it's too early to debate the merits of classic rock bands while we walk."

I groaned. "What?"

"You brought it up last night," she reminded me. "Something about writing a blog post on the greatest rock band of all time? You waxed manic about it after your third cup of caramel espresso."

That explained the vague recollection of holding court on the subject of guitar solos while Ms. Wonder looked on with a mixture of amusement and tolerance that has defined our relationship for years.

Shortly after our walk and a much-needed eight ounces of hair-of-dog, I found myself at Luna Caffè, laptop open, staring at a blank document titled 'Rock-n-Roll Royalty [BAND NAME]'. I couldn't decide which band deserved my eloquent defense.

"Working on your manifesto?"

I jumped at the voice. Lupe and Claudia had materialized beside my table, both clutching elaborate coffee concoctions that were works of avant-garde 'art-of-the-bean.'

"It's a blog post," I clarified, "about the greatest rock band of all time."

Claudia's eyes lit up. "Oh! That's easy. Queen."

"Wrong," Lupe countered immediately. "The Beatles."

I scoffed. "Please. Neither comes close to Led Zeppelin."

All three of us froze, eyebrows raised, the battle lines clearly drawn.

"Take a seat," I suggested, "and prepare to be educated on why Led Zeppelin represents the pinnacle of rock-n-roll artistry."

"This should be good," Lupe smirked, sliding into the chair across from me. "Let me guess—something about Jimmy Page's guitar wizardry?"

"Among other things," I said defensively. "But primarily, Zeppelin created a perfect fusion of blues, folk, and hard rock that—"

"That they often borrowed without attribution," Claudia interrupted. "Meanwhile, Freddie Mercury had a four-octave vocal range and wrote 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' a song that literally everyone on the planet can sing along to."

"Overplayed," I countered.

"Timeless," she corrected.

Lupe cleared her throat. "While you two argue about bands that peaked in the '70s, let's remember that The Beatles changed music forever. They evolved from 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' to 'Octopus's Garden' in just a few years."

"First," I said. 'Octopus's Garden?'"

"Best song ever," she said.

"It's Ringo," I said, thinking no more need be said.

"Ringo's my favorite," she said.

I gave her a look to indicate that there was much more to be said after all, but it would have to wait. Then I got back to the subject at hand. 

"Evolution doesn't equal superiority," I argued. "And let's be honest—after they discovered LSD, half the Beatle's songs sound like they were written by whoever was highest that day. Ringo on the day in question is my guess."

"You're one to talk about chemical influences," Lupe retorted. "How many cups of coffee fueled this blog post idea of yours?"

A woman seated at the next table glanced up from her dog-eared copy of "High Fidelity" and nodded appreciatively at our debate.

"I think you're all missing something," she said. 

"Oh, yeah?" said Lupe, letting us know that her feathers were ruffled and she wasn't in the mood for bilge.

"The best rock band isn't about technical prowess or even innovation," she explained. "It's about which band makes you feel something profound every time you hear them, decades after you first discovered their music."

We all fell silent, contemplating her wisdom.

"For me," she continued, "it's The Rolling Stones. Not because they're objectively 'the best,' but because 'Wild Horses' still gives me chills every time I hear it, even after all these years."

"That's very insightful of you," I observed. "Do you practice mindfulness?"

"Unceasingly," she replied with a smile, and I immediately realized she wasn't one of your average caffeine fiends.

"By that metric," Claudia mused, "maybe we're all right?"

"Absolutely not," I said.

The debate continued through two more rounds of coffee, spanning everything from album sales to cultural impact to the day I swore I'd seen Robert Plant buying organic kale in the Harris Teeter on Oleander Ave. 

Driving home, listening to 'Stairway to Heaven,' I reflected on our spirited discussion. The beauty of rock-n-roll—of all art, really—is that it touches us in special ways, becomes intertwined with our personal narratives, and literally serves as a soundtrack to our lives.

Maybe there is no 'greatest band.' But there's certainly the band that speaks to you, that makes you argue passionately in coffee shops and defend guitar solos to teenagers who think your musical taste peaked around the same time as your hairline.

As I crossed the Memorial Bridge, the sun setting over downtown Wilmington, Jimmy Page's guitar solo soared through my speakers. For a moment, everything aligned—the music, the view, the memory of friends debating something that ultimately didn't matter but somehow meant everything.

And isn't that what rock-n-roll is all about?

Don't Need Much

It’s mid-February, and winter is at its worst on the Carolina coast. The sky is gray, the ocean breeze is stiff, and the air is chilled and damp. These days, my free time is spent outside the office but inside—preferably in the warm, coffee-scented embrace of a Wilmawood café.

I parked Wynd Horse in front of Drift Cafe' and waited as a monster pickup truck rumbled past, growling like an angry bear, flashing enough neon to qualify as a Vegas sideshow. When the coast was clear, I crossed and stepped inside.

They were waiting for me inside. Of course, they were.

Claudia and Lupe had claimed a table by the window, deep in animated conversation, gesturing wildly. At the center of their storm sat Island Irv, looking like a halibut caught in a net.

“Genome! There you are!” Irv called, his voice edged with the hope of rescue.

Fortified by the full armor of a double cappuccino, I moved to their table, commended my soul to God, and joined them—for better or worse. Escape was never an option. Not with Claudia and Lupe. Not in this lifetime.

"So, Genome," said Claudia, "you waited for that truck to pass even though you had plenty of time to cross."

"Yeah," said a voice inside my head. "You stood there like a squirrel contemplating life choices."

That was Amy, my amygdala—the bratty little gatekeeper of my emotions. I call her Princess Amy because she’s spoiled and prone to dramatics.

Lupe, in perfect sync with Amy, snorted. "Were you waiting for a personal invitation? Afraid the monster truck was going to grab you and drop you in the river?"

“Not grab me,” I said. “More like—run me down and then back over me, just because he could.”

"Pfft," said Lupe.

"Pfft," echoed Amy.

Claudia took a slow sip of coffee. “Sounds like anxiety talking.”

“It was Amy,” I said.

“What? Amy?” she asked, confused.

“Never mind,” I said. 

Claudia set down her coffee. “You know, the Buddha teaches that anxiety—like all suffering—comes from attachment.”

“I’m not attached to anxiety," I said. "I’d love to cut all ties with it.”

“No, no. The attachment isn’t to anxiety itself but to control,” she explained. “You want to control your surroundings and avoid conflict. But true serenity comes from releasing desire and simply existing.”

“I’d love to ‘simply exist,’ but my amygdala has other plans,” I said. “She prefers steel-plated, street-legal tanks—not real ones. Metaphorical tanks.”

Lupe smirked. "Yeah, Claudia, it's easy to renounce desire when the worst thing chasing you is a mild inconvenience."

A silence settled over the table. Irv had a look on his face that reminded me of a line in a Jimmy Buffett song—I don’t know where I’m gonna go when the volcano blows.

Claudia turned back to me. “So, do you think your anxiety comes from striving to achieve too much?”

"I don’t ask for much," I said. “Just an engaging pastime, some quiet quality time with Ms. Wonder, a good book…”

I paused, then remembered an article I’d read in Vanity Fair.

“Oh! And a cottage in an abandoned Renaissance village in Italy. They pay people to move there and keep the villages from crumbling.”

They all stared at me. Irv looked even more desperate to escape.

“I know, I know,” I continued, “the cottage is a bit of an outlier in my otherwise modest list of desires. But come on—Italy.”

They all smiled and nodded. I suddenly felt lighter. Probably just my mood disorder reversing polarity.

The conversation wound down, goodbyes were exchanged, and we went our separate ways.

Outside, the sun had burned a hole in the overcast sky. Driving down Castle Street, I felt better. Blue skies smiling at me, bluebirds singing their songs—I thought, don’t wake me, this is going to be the best day of my life.

Later, reflecting on the morning’s events, a quote from the Tao Te Ching came to mind:

"Be like the forces of nature: when it blows, there is only wind; when it rains, there is only rain; when the clouds pass, the sun shines through."

The quote describes me to a T, don’t you think? Like a force of nature.

Merv: A Canine Rom-Com

The greater Wilmington area has become a favorite playground for Hollywood movie and television producers. The city is host to so many film projects that it has become known as Hollywood East. My name for it is Wilmawood. I think my name is better because, for one thing, it's clearly a better name.

I'm drawn like a moth to the cinematic flame, following production crews from spot to spot to experience what Tom Hanks calls "the making of another major motion picture masterpiece." And, I cannot lie--there's another reason I write about the movie industry. But you'll need to search for "Genome in La La Land" to find out why.

The SAQ strikes paused many film projects in 2023, but activity resumed quickly after the work stoppages. Notable productions in 2024 included 'The Summer I Turned Pretty', 'Merv', 'The Waterfront', 'The Runarounds', and 'Capsized'.

The production I was most interested in tells the story of an ex-couple (Russ and Anna) who reunite when they discover their dog has become clinically depressed over their breakup. The dog's name is Merv and the movie has the same name.

To lift Merv's spirits, Russ (Charlie Cox) decides to take him away from cold, snowy Minnesota to spend Christmas in warm, sunny Florida because nothing cures canine depression like a change in latitude? Anna (Zooey Deschanel) arrives unexpectedly, and the romantic tension is rekindled faster than you can say "fetch!"

The film represents Ms. Deschanel's return to the romantic comedy genre that made her an international star. Charley Cox is, of course, the star of Marvel's 'Daredevil: Born Again' - and a man who clearly knows something about second chances.

I have no doubt the couple's concern for Merv will lift his spirits, but will Merv help to rekindle their romance?  Early hype around the movie suggested yes, but later reports seemed uncertain. 

I consulted my Magic 8-Ball, and the answer floated up out of the darkness: "Reply hazy, try again." That kind of nonsense makes me seriously doubt the reliability of magic balls. Do you ever feel that way?

To transform Wilmington into a winter wonderland, Princess Street received a snowy holiday makeover featuring a giant snowman dressed in a top hat and scarf. I visited him and asked for an interview but found him quite full of himself. 

I spoke with a barista at Café Lune, who shared an interesting story about a yoga studio on Castle Street being used to shoot a dance class for the movie. The story remains unconfirmed at press time. Can dancing be part of a dog's obedience training I wondered. Again, the Magic 8-Ball had no clue. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

Merv spends Christmas at a dog-friendly beach in Florida, but in reality, it's the Kure Beach fishing pier, with additional scenes filmed at Hurricane Alley's Restaurant on the Carolina Beach Boardwalk. I tried to get video of behind-the-scenes activity by walking onto the sets like I was walking aboard my yacht with my beret dipped strategically over one eye, but I didn't fool anyone.

Principal photography began in April 2024 and concluded in June 2024, and it's rumored that Merv himself is in negotiations for the sequel. 

Although Zooey Deschanel is widely recognized for her role as Jess in "New Girl," her film career includes a variety of notable performances. In the highly popular romantic comedy "(500) Days of Summer," she showcased her versatility and charm to become an international star.

Thinking about the anti-romance theme and unexpected ending of 'Days of Summer' caused me to wonder about a surprise twist ending for 'Merv?' Will Merv meet a cute Labradoodle and leave the humans holding the leash? I'm just speculating; I have no information to support the idea.

'Merv' is directed by Jessica Swale, who made her feature film debut with 'Summerland.' She won the Laurence Olivier Award and gained recognition in 2016 for her script 'Nell Gwynn', which won the Best New Comedy Award.

The screenplay is written by Dane Clark, known for 'One More Time,' and Lindsey Stewart, recognized for 'Workin' Moms.' Clark and Stewart received the WGA Award for their web series 'The Commute.' Their debut feature film is the 2014 romantic comedy-thriller 'Put a Hit on You' - which thankfully is not what Merv had in mind for his feuding owners.

In addition to Deschanel and Cox, the cast also includes Patricia Heaton ('The Middle'), Chris Redd ('Saturday Night Live'), Jasmine Matthews ('The Rookie'), Wynn Everett ('Sweet Magnolias'), and Joey Slotnick ('Drive-Away Dolls').

Many of Deschanel's projects highlight her vocal talents, and I can imagine her singing to Merv a song in a minor key about kibble and heartbreak. She might even contribute to the movie soundtrack. Why not? Come to think about it--why not sing a duet with Merv?

No release date has been announced. It's a holiday movie, so we may have to wait until year-end. I didn't bother asking the 8-ball. Why do I continue to carry this thing around?

If you feel you just can't wait for Christmas, I suggest watching '(500) Days of Summer' again. It's streaming on Amazon. The movie has no dogs, but the human drama is top-notch. Not your average rom-com.

Whatever you decide, you can count on me to broadcast the release date as soon as I hear about it. After all, I strive never to let my public down. You are much too important, almost as important as getting past those "Restricted Area" signs on film sets.

Baby Come Back

"Have a nice morning?" she said as I entered the front door.

"Hardly," I said.

"Too bad," she said, "I thought you'd be cheered by a walk on this beautiful morning. Did something go wrong to spoil it?"

"Just Mabd up to her old tricks," I said.




"Mabd?" she said."

"One of the Morrigan sisters," I said. Immediately, her twin eyebrows lifted, and wrinkles appeared on her forehead. It was the kind of look I'd expect if I had told her I was giving up qigong. 

"Celtic goddess," I continued. "A triune, in fact: Mabd, Macha, and Nemain. You probably haven't heard of them."

“No, I haven’t,” she replied, but I decided to move on anyway, recalling a lesson from the day I lost control of my bike in loose gravel—it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it ended with me in a heap in the ditch.

"Yesterday, driving down Ocean Highway listening to the 60's station..."

"You mean 60's on 6, the SiriusXM station."

"You're behind the times, Poopsie. It's, the SXM station, but it's Channel 73 now."

"Why did they change the channel?"

"It's something people do when they're bored," I said. "Let's stay on topic or I'll never get this story told. The programming schedule has recently been changed and the only song they play by Sonny and Cher is Baby Don't Go. I've heard it every day for several days in a row."

"Oh, too bad," she said. "I'll bet you're tired of it."

"Wonder," I said. "Princess Amy was spot on when she said that with all the hit songs that fantastic duo had in the 60s, surely SXM could find room for some of their other hits."

"Princess Amy is in your head," she said.

"Right," I said, "she sits atop my medulla oblongata, next door to the hippocampus. She's bicameral, you know. There are two sides of her--one for each hemisphere, making it impossible to escape her influence."

"My point is that she's your amygdala," she explained. "You often say she's a spoiled little brat, and I like to remind myself that you know the difference."

"Spoiled little brat, my ass," said Amy. "I'll make her think spoiled little brat."

"Calm down," I said. "No need to get your knickers in a wad."

"I am calm," said the Wonder, "and just what are you implying when you say knickers? You're getting distracted."

Well, now I was distracted. I didn't want Wonder to know I actually have conversations with the defendant. My next remarks were carefully chosen, but Wonder spoke before I could say anything.

"Amy is nothing more than a cute name for your limbic system," she said. "It's fun, just like your lagoon creatures are fun, but they're pure fiction."

"Drivel!," Amy said." I may be obliged to listen to drivel now and again but I'll be damned if I'm going to listen to pure bilge. Tell her to put a sock in it!"

I bit my tongue because the urge to calm Amy down combined with the urge to correct Ms. Wonder on the subject of lagoon creatures was great. I'm sure you understand.

"Don't have anything to say? Does that mean that we're in agreement?"

"Back to the subject," I said, "it's a sad song--Baby Don't Go-- and I don't want to listen to sad songs. When I get sad, Amy finds more sad stuff to pile on until my cup overfloweth."

"Sorry, Babe," she said with a look that backed up her statement."

"Thanks," I said, "and to get back to the subject at hand, this morning driving down Ocean Highway listening to the 60's station, guess what happened?"

"Baby Don't Go?"

"No, Sonny and Cher singing Baby Come Back."

"You see? It's a sign--a sign that things have taken a positive turn."

"And you consider it proof that the Universe has your back. Mabd isn't in control."

Did you notice how she seemed to have accepted my theory about the sewer hapies. I can't say I wasn't pleased. But she continued.

"The Morgan sisters are no match for a positive attitude," she said."

"Not the Morgan sisters, Poopsie. The Morgan's are gospel singers who, I'm told, devote themselves solely to doing good in the world. No, it's not the Morgan's, it's The Morrigan Sisters. Their names are Nemain, Macha, and Mabd, and they're sewer harpies, the lot of them!"

She gave me a stern look and took a deep breath, but I hardly breathed. What happened next, I realized, would set the course for the rest of the day. 

"There's a much better explanation for all this," she said. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Absolutely," I said, "but before you speak let me make you aware of the last bit of my story. Just so you have all the facts."

"By all means," she said. "Spill it."

I told her about seeing the sign for Crawl Space Ninjas in the turning lane coming home from the post office. Looking back, I think it might have been better left unsaid.

She gave me a look that wasn't one of her familiar patented looks. It was a look that I would expect if I told her I'd decided to raise cocker spaniels.

"Well," she said, "I suppose there's no arguing with that."

And without further comment, she shimmered and seemed to float up the staircase. Minutes later the sounds of her personal Spotify playlist floated down to me. 

I went out onto the lanai with a cup of espresso, where Amy and I continued our discussion of the SiriusXM program schedule.