Ad Blockers

The Great Ad Blocker Paradox

Ad blockers are all the rage on the Internet recently, and frankly, I get it. Search for something simple—like how to get chocolate out of a white carpet—and you might find one helpful article buried under hundreds of ads trying to sell you industrial-grade stain remover or carpet dye. 

And not surprisingly, among all those ads, you’ll find promotions for apps that promise to block ads.

Ads for ad blockers are designed to be like shiny objects--they grab your attention. And I must admit, some of them do sparkle. Admit it, you’ve clicked at least one. And when mild curiosity causes you to click, you're suddenly spiraling down the rabbit hole of pop-ups, testimonials, and big flashing buttons that scream, “Click here for a free trial!” Irony, thy name is digital advertising.

Here's my point and my confession: I don’t use ad blockers. I know, shocking, right? Why wouldn't I want to make life easier by eliminating those annoying ads? But consider for a moment: if I blocked ads, I’d lose easy access to some of the most valuable—and hilariously absurd—content the Internet has to offer. Let me explain.

• Simple, natural cures for every ailment. Did you know a paste made of parsley and moonlight can cure hiccups and probably fix your credit score? Neither did I until an ad told me so.
• True, lasting weight loss without sacrifices. Yes, it’s possible to shed pounds without giving up donuts or breaking a sweat. You just have to buy a $99 eBook called Lose Fat While You Nap!
• Saving hundreds, even thousands, on insurance. I don’t know how switching my car insurance will net me a new yacht, or a swimming pool, or a cruise around the Aegean islands on a luxury liner but the people in the ad were thrilled about it.
• Making a 7-figure income from my phone. And the best part? I can do it in my “spare time.” Apparently, billion-dollar empires can be built between episodes of Emily in Paris. Who knew?

My personal favorites are YouTube videos that promise enlightenment in 30 seconds or less. They're the fortune cookies of the Web. Then there are promises of great achievements with no effort--"Become fluent in French while you sleep." Others tempt you with headlines like, “This discovery changes everything! Learn why doctors don't want you to know!”

Sure, the avalanche of ads can be frustrating, but it’s also endlessly entertaining. It's all about attitude, isn't it? Rather than annoying ads, I think of it as a steady stream of pop-up soap operas. 

Dr. Coast put her finger on the nub when she said, "Think of all you'll miss if you install one of those ad blockers!"

And so, I’ll pass on the ad blockers for now. After all, without that steady stream of advertising soap operas, I'd never have learned about the revolutionary power of Himalayan goat milk to reverse aging.

Emergent Surprises

Emergent behaviors are system properties not present in their lower-level components. They arise when those components interact with each other. The technical name for emergent behavior is “surprises.”

“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Wonder. “Now it becomes clear why you associate emergent behavior with our squirrels--surprises! You got that right. In the good old days, we had seven of them, and their silly antics were fun. You even blogged about them.”

“What you call silly antics,” I said, “is what I call disordered behavior.”

Ms. Wonder had graciously agreed to hear one of the ideas I was considering for my new SubStack blog. I’m thinking about writing on emergent behavior in the context of systems theory and biological organisms. It sounds terribly nerdy, I admit, but my goal is to make it interesting—dare I say, even fun—for the layperson.

But don’t roll your eyes just yet! This new project won’t interfere with The Circular Journey, the blog you’ve come to love and depend on. It’ll continue as it always has—equal parts wisdom and squirrels, with the occasional cameo from Ms. Wonder herself.

“One familiar example of emergent behavior,” I said, “is when a group of starlings flies in synchronized formation in the evening sky. Each bird in the flock merely mimics its nearest neighbors—a fairly simple act that results in a surprisingly complex behavior.”

“Yes, but what does that,” she said, “have to do with our squirrels?”

“Bear with me,” I said. “I’m getting there. When the squirrels moved into our backyard, resources were abundant, and competition was limited. That’s why they chose our yard in the first place.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.”

“Those favorable factors allowed them the freedom to reproduce at full capacity.”

“In other words,” she said, “our squirrel neighbors are enjoying an orgy of fruit and nuts, carousing all evening—sex, drugs, and rock and roll about sum it up.”

I thought of many things I could say in response—perhaps too many things—so I let that one slide.

“Chaos theory,” I continued, “you probably remember me mentioning. It tells us that small changes in a system’s initial conditions can trigger drastic changes over time. It’s called the butterfly effect.”

“I've heard about the butterfly effect,” she said, “but what I’d like to know is why Texas. What’s Texas got to do with it?”

“Never mind Texas,” I said. “It’s not germane. Molecular chaos tells us that confined molecules, even in something less than complete disorder, will inevitably move toward greater disorder as they collide.”

“I’m listening,” she said, and I was relieved to finally have her attention. I get a little wound up trying to impress this woman. She’s the family member with the superior cognitive powers, and when she really lets that brain loose, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

“So you see,” I said, “it all boils down to this...”

“Do tell,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m holding my breath.”

The part about holding her breath sailed right past me, but I was buoyed by her attention and pressed on.

“A few squirrel families arrived in our yard and enjoyed abundant food and freedom from predators. Sitting atop the fence day after day, leisurely enjoying a feast of fruit and nuts—they were soon noticed by other squirrels.”

“And crows,” she said. “Don’t forget the crows. They sat in the tall dead tree and announced the feast to all of Waterford. It was like free Dunkin’ coffee and doughnuts.”

Once again, the Dunkin’ motif caught me off guard, but I let it pass.

“The ‘components’ of the squirrel population,” I said, “began to interact exponentially. The more excited they became, the more disorder they achieved, until reaching total chaos.”

Her eyes grew bigger as I approached the punchline. By the time I stopped talking, she was out of her chair.

“The result was inevitable,” she said. “Quantum determinism realized once more. Where we once had seven quiet little tree monkeys playing in our backyard, we now have 20 components interacting in total chaos.”

“In other words,” she added with a smirk, “surprises have emerged!”

Celebrate Your Life

Why Not Celebrate Life?

We’ve embraced bucket lists as a cultural phenomenon—a checklist of adventures and dreams we want to tackle before we kick said bucket. Life Reviews, meanwhile, have crept onto the scene, offering us a way to reflect, recalibrate, and gain clarity about what’s truly important. But there’s one glaring omission in this trio of life milestones: a Life Celebration.

Let’s affirm it--life is good, the world is amazing, and we don't appreciate it enough. Even those of us who truly do appreciate our lot in life, we don't show enough gratitude.

Now, I could regale you with the story of my life, framed as a tragic tale. You’d nod sympathetically as I recounted episodes of depression, anxiety, grief, and attention deficiency, marveling at how I’m still standing. “How do you even function?” you’d ask, wide-eyed. And I’d shrug modestly, accepting your awe.

Or, I could tell you the story of my magical, charmed existence—the serendipitous moments, the inexplicable twists of fortune. You’d lean in, enchanted, and agree that my life has been a delightful mosaic of wonder.

Here’s the kicker: both stories are true. But which one I tell—and how I tell it—is entirely my choice. Neuroscience and psychology have plenty to say about why we’re wired to lean on the tragic tale, but here’s the epiphany: I don’t have to. And neither do you.

From Reviewing Life to Celebrating It

So, where am I going with all this? Just as we create bucket lists to inspire adventure and Life Reviews to help us gain perspective, we should also have Life Celebrations to honor the beauty, meaning, and inexplicable joys of the journey.

I hope you agree that there are inexplicable joys along the way. If you doubt it, then I wish you that joy, and I offer the only advice that I have to give on the subject--you will find inexplicable joy if you look for it.

Life Reviews, by the way, are not just about nostalgia or dredging up regrets. They’re about understanding. Studies suggest that reflecting on life helps us see the threads that connect our experiences, allowing us to learn from the past and make sense of who we are. 

Life Reviews foster gratitude, offer closure for unresolved conflicts, and provide a sense of peace. It’s like taking inventory of your life’s emotional treasures—and realizing how rich you truly are.

But why stop at reflection? Why not move to celebration?

The Case for a Life Celebration

We already celebrate birthdays—milestones marking our journey around the sun. A Life Celebration might be similar, but with significant differences: a formal, ritualized way to honor the life you’ve lived so far. 

Think of it as a personal festival of joy and reflection. Imagine friends and family gathering not for a farewell party or an obligatory anniversary dinner but for a heartfelt celebration of your existence.

Here are a few ideas to kick-start this beautiful tradition:

1. The Story Circle: Invite loved ones to share their favorite stories about you—funny moments, meaningful encounters, or even the quirky things that make you uniquely you. It’s a live highlight reel, reminding you of your impact on others.

2. Ritual of Gratitude: Set aside a moment during the celebration for everyone to express gratitude—not just for you, but for the shared experiences that have shaped your friendship. Pass a candle, write messages on a shared board, or create a gratitude tree.

3. Legacy Keepsakes: Create something tangible during the celebration, like a scrapbook of memories, a video montage, or a quilt made from pieces of your story. It’s a keepsake for you and a treasure for generations to come.

4. Symbolic Ceremonies: Incorporate meaningful rituals—perhaps lighting candles for each decade of your life, planting a tree to symbolize growth, or even creating a "time capsule" filled with mementos and dreams for the future.

5. Your Own ‘Drink Me’ Potion: End the event with a signature drink or dish that reflects your journey—something that’s uniquely “you.” Serve it with a story about why it matters.

Why Not?

Life is beautiful, fleeting, and unpredictable. A Life Celebration isn’t just about looking back—it’s about recognizing the miracle of being here, in this moment. It’s about shifting the narrative from “survival” to “appreciation,” from “I have to” to “I get to.”

So, what do you think? Why not start your own Life Celebration? Why not honor the story you’re living, the connections you’ve made, and the joy of simply being alive?

Why not, indeed? Ms. Wonder would approve.

Mockingbird and Bluejay

The day opened with promises of blue skies and cheerful bluebirds, all day long. How does that song go? "Blue skies smiling at me. Nothing but blue skies do I see. Never saw the sun shining so bright. Never saw things going so right."

It reminded me of something P.G. Wodehouse wrote about glorious mornings and how they flatter mountaintops. I can’t recall the exact words—pretty highbrow stuff—but I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, one must always budget for the weather, so the key is to enjoy yourself when you can. You never know when some cocky politician will come along and mess things up.

Armed with birdseed, I headed outside to greet the day—and the birds, who were already busy greeting it themselves.

Mimi, a perky Mockingbird, is my morning companion. She alights on the fence near enough for me to touch, then fixes me with her inquisitive eye. I place the feed atop the fence rail, and she follows me as I move along. She nibbles here and there but seems more interested in watching me.

I chat with her as we go, and she tilts her head, side to side as if wondering why I don’t have a song like hers. Maybe she’s studying my voice, planning to mock me later. Who knows what runs through a bird’s mind?

Eventually, Chester, a jaunty, self-important, and perpetually suspicious Blue Jay—spots us. Chester fancies himself the head of wildlife security and takes it upon himself to monitor all forest activity. He seems to think Mimi is up to something, though what he suspects, I can’t imagine, but security types like Chester don’t need probable cause.

As soon as he sees us, he sounds the alarm, screeching as if the house is on fire. Mimi flees, along with every other bird within earshot. Chester puffs up with pride and perches victoriously on the fence, basking in his success.

It’s better for him to feel satisfied; otherwise, he calls an emergency 'Council of Birds,' which leads to high-decibel accusations and wildly bizarre conspiracy theories. 

The council inevitably disperses once the birds realize Chester’s crisis is just more of his self-important bluster. Unfortunately, birds seem to have short memories because the charade replays every morning like clockwork.

The backyard comes alive again once I finish my chores. Mimi returns, along with Chester (still smug), the squirrel circus, and the Mourning Dove choir—the Sisters of the Order of Brunswick. The doves rarely partake in the goodies, presumably fasting to set an example for the ever-rowdy squirrels.

By evening, as the sun dips below the treetops and casts a golden glow on the backyard, Chester can be seen perched atop the old dead tree at the forest’s edge, surveying his “secured” and "safe" domain. The early evening quiet is unremarkable, but Chester takes pride in it. I imagine him puffing out his chest and muttering, “Better safe than sorry.”

You might think I have an overactive imagination, but if you were here to experience the day with me, I have no doubt you'd agree with my assessment. Bird psychology is just as easy to understand as human psychology. If it looks like a self-important Blue Jay and sounds like a self-important Blue Jay... etc., etc.

Mood Indigo

Art has a unique way of revealing the extraordinary beauty hidden within the ordinary. That belief drives the creative journey of abstract photographer Ms. Wonder.

Her photographs capture the fleeting beauty of shimmering reflections, transforming ordinary surfaces into a canvas of abstract artistry. 

Her latest achievement, selected for the 'Mood Indigo' exhibition at Sunset River Gallery, is a testament to her remarkable ability to transform the mundane into the magnificent."

The Vision Behind the Lens

Wonder explains that Georgia O'Keeffe's influence has taught here that:

 

“When we take time to really notice the everyday, seemingly mundane, we can find a new way of seeing—a way in which the ordinary becomes extraordinary.” 

One of her favorite methods is to capture intimate, detailed images of ships that brave the elements to cross vast oceans. The weathered hulls, with their layer of colors, bear the marks of countless journeys. The abstract forms created by wind, waves, and time come alive in her photographs, inviting viewers to appreciate the beauty that often goes unseen.

The Journey to 'Mood Indigo'

The 'Mood Indigo' exhibition showcases artworks that explore the depth and emotion of the color indigo. Sunset River Gallery, renowned for its exceptional collection of regional art, issued a Call for Art and received far more submissions than could be accommodated for this themed show. Ms. Wonder’s “Celestial Sky Bursts” was among the select few chosen, a recognition that left her both honored and thrilled.

The journey to this moment was as meticulous as her photographic process. First came the image selection: choosing a piece that not only resonated with the theme but also showcased her signature style. 

Her curated photograph, "Celestial Sky Bursts," is a striking example of her artistry. As part of the submission process, she crafted a compelling paragraph to accompany her work:

"Celestial Sky Bursts" invites you to lose yourself in the rich depths of indigo, a color that evokes the infinite wonder of the cosmos. Vertical bursts of white and red streak upward, like distant starfire breaking through the quiet darkness. A notable red line slices the bottom, evoking a planet's surface or the boundary of a faraway world. It’s a moment of stillness and wonder, where the universe speaks in bursts of light."

Preparation and Presentation

Once “Celestial Sky Bursts” was accepted, the countdown to the exhibition began. Art drop-off day on January 30th was marked by careful preparation, ensuring the piece arrived ready to dazzle. Then came the opening night celebration on February 1st, a festive wine reception where artists, collectors, and art enthusiasts gathered to celebrate the new show.

Standing beside her photograph in the gallery, Ms. Wonder reflected on the journey. From capturing the initial image on the Cape Fear River to seeing it displayed alongside other remarkable works, this moment was a culmination of her dedication to the craft and her belief in the power of art to transform the way we see the world.

A New Way of Seeing

Ms. Wonder’s work is deeply inspired by the legacy of Georgia O’Keeffe, whose paintings encouraged viewers to slow down and appreciate the beauty in small, often overlooked details. Through her photography, Ms. Wonder invites us to do the same.

As she puts it, “When I stop trying to understand abstract art and simply allow myself to pay attention, my inner critic fades away, and everything becomes as it should be.” This belief is the philosophy at the heart of her practice and resonates in every image she creates.

Looking Ahead

The 'Mood Indigo' exhibition is just the beginning of an exciting year for Ms. Wonder and her artistic journey. With four additional photographs currently on display at Sunset River Gallery and plans for future projects, she’s poised to continue inspiring viewers to find beauty in the everyday. 

Ms. Wonder’s art is a testament to her belief that beauty truly is all around us—if we take the time to see it.

My Wonder Worker

My morning began in a haze. Depression and vertigo worked together to twist me into a tailspin. Round and round, down and down. And in that first waking moment, I heard a mysterious voice say, "Drink me."

You surely remember the voices I wrote about in a previous post. If not, don't sweat it--it's enough to know that I sometimes hear absurd, nonsensical things when I first open my eyes. 

I didn't have time to muse on the mystery of the voice because of an early appointment in Wilmawood. But my mind churned with memories of the siren call of "drink me." It made me think of Alice's Wonderland potion and you know how that turned out for her. It also reminded me of my old habits and bad behavior--they were caused by brews far less magical than Alice's.

As I finished dressing, Ms. Wonder appeared. Her presence is always a peculiar mix of calm and chaos. "You’re in a state," she observed with the air of someone diagnosing a clock that refused to tick.

"Why does life have to be so difficult, Wonder?" I asked. "Why does everything need to be...what's the word? Physicists have a word for it--means being broken down or taken apart to be  understood?"

"Deconstructed," she replied, already halfway back to the kitchen. "But you’re overthinking again," she called. "Just use what works and forget the rest."

"Ah," I said, already feeling a little more hopeful. "The old one-day-at-a-time approach," I said, more to myself than to her.

"Why not?" she called once more.

Why not, indeed I wondered.

As she rattled around in the kitchen, I considered the association of magic with drinks—the kind that promises solace or courage in a bottle. In my younger days, I’d followed those promises like Dorothy down the yellow brick road, only to find fool’s gold at the end. 

It wasn’t the drink itself but the illusion it held—the idea that it could fix things. Now, here I was, waiting for Ms. Wonder’s own elixir. Would it be the real "drink me" potion--the one that replaced magic with meaning?

I heard the faint hum of a familiar tune—but one I couldn't identify—coming my way from the kitchen. A brief flicker at the doorway told me Wonder was back with me. When she materialized, she carried a tray with a glass of liquid glowing with a warm, golden hue.

"Drink this," she said, her tone equal parts bedside manner and royal decree. "It’s my own invention. The ginger gives it color. The turmeric makes it anti-inflammatory. The cayenne pepper gives it a bite. I’ve been told it’s invigorating after a late evening."

"But I haven’t had a late evening," I protested.

"No, and I’ve never treated circumstances like yours, so I have no reviews to share." She shrugged and said, "Now, drink."

I would have chugged anything that promised relief from the mood I was in. I gulped it down and suddenly felt as if someone had set off a cherry bomb inside my head. But as the warmth spread, the room stopped spinning, and the fog began to lift. The sun grew brighter, birds chirped louder, and hope returned once again.

Ms. Wonder leaned against the highboy, watching me with a knowing smile. "Feeling better?"

"I’ll say. What is this stuff?"

She waved a hand. "Just a mix of things that work. Take it, leave it, or deconstruct it if you prefer."

I laughed for the first time since rolling out of bed. "You are a wonder, Poopsie. There's none like you. You know that, right?"

She gave me a wink, shimmered like a heat wave, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. I sat there, savoring the afterglow. It wasn’t magic, not in the fairy-tale sense. It was something better--a reminder that sometimes, all we need is a little push—or a fiery drink—to see things in a new light.

As I gathered my things and prepared to face the day, I couldn’t help but think: perhaps the true "drink me" potion is what Wonder suggested--finding what works and letting go of everything else. Why not, indeed.

Artificially Intelligent

If you regularly visit The Circular Journey, you know I'm pursuing a career as a science writer on SubStack. Science writing will not replace this blog--I will continue to do both. I will never abandon you, and I will not stop writing about my daily life--it's too amazing for that.

While reviewing research articles in preparation for the science writing project, I came across a fascinating fact of reptile biology that has eluded me for fifteen years. 

I was surprised to learn that chameleons have weatherproof tongues, a discovery made by researchers at the University of South Florida nearly fifteen years ago. I'm embarrassed to be so far behind in my knowledge of reptile biology!

If you're wondering, and why wouldn't you be, what it means to have a weatherproof tongue, I'll tell you. According to the researchers, the chameleon tongue does not move slowly in cold weather.

That's right. The tongue is a muscle, and muscles generally slow down at low temperatures. I didn't know that. I'm aware that I move more slowly when I'm cold, but I thought it happened because I simply don't want to move when cold. But, no! It's an evolutionary advantage, apparently.

being the maths nerd that I am, the article made me wonder just how cold is cold enough to slow a tongue. 

Being of scientific mind, I wonder how many other animals possess weatherproof tongues. Surely, there are many. The article should have included that information—I assume it didn't, but I only read the abstract, not the entire article.

Maybe I need to read the full paper because, now I think about it, why do chameleons need that special ability? Don't lizards live in warm climates? I may be more unaware of the lives of lizards than I imagined.

But let's focus on what I do know; my tongue is weatherproof, and I have a weatherproof mind. The old gray matter functions at its sharpest when the air is crisp enough to see your breath. I'm much like a rock troll in that regard.

You probably expect me, after reading about the researcher's discovery, to feel compelled to practice maths on it. You know me so well. I decided to write an equation (a simplified one) that could be used to determine how quickly a small animal might lose heat in freezing weather. My skills are rusty but here's what I came up with:

dT/dt = -k(T - T_a) - h(T - T_g)

After solving the formula for our recent freezing weather and uncharacteristic snowfall, I determined that in about twenty minutes, a squirrel sitting atop the fence in our backyard would be as cold as a penguin's belly button. I wonder if artificial intelligence would have done better?

Don't expect more posts like this one. I only wanted to provide a sample of what you'll find on my SubStack page. I'll announce when it goes live.

Until then, stay safe and warm. Winter is full of surprises this year. I wonder if artificial intelligence and large language models have anything to do with that?

Welcome to the brave new world of 2025. Thank you for being hee. Leave your questions or suggestions in the comments. 

How We Met

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, a blog as soothing as the popular bird songs of the 1980s, as satisfying as a peanut butter and apple-slice sandwich, and as pleasing overall as a shopping mall chair massage.

I was awakened last Sunday morning by one who's been with me for as long as I can remember. One in whom I can depend. One who will never leave or forsake me--tinnitus--that loud, unwavering ringing in my ear. It will be with me until the end of time.

The Wonder and I had come to Holden Beach, arriving at low tide. She wished to add to her collection of fossilized sea biscuits. If you're unfamiliar with those forty-million-year-old relics, never mind, not germane.

"How did you two meet?" asked the Cafe Ahora barista who had locked her keys in her jeep and with no one else in the coffee shop, had nothing else to do except talk to us. 

“Well, that’s a rather long story,” I replied, leaning back in my chair, as though preparing to launch into an epic.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, her wide-eyed gaze sparkling with interest.

And so, without hesitation, I took a deep breath, exhaled as theatrically as I could muster, and began.

“It was the year Bluebottle won the Lafayette championship,” I said, with a wistful air.

“Bluebottle?” she interrupted, tilting her head.

“A racehorse, " said the Wonder.

“That’s right,” I said. “It all happened in Lafayette, Louisiana, so it had to have been sometime in the 1980s.”

“Those were exciting times,” said Ms. Wonder knowingly, as though she had personally experienced every neon-drenched moment of the decade. It was an impressive thought for someone who was a mere whisp of a girl back then.

“Exciting times,” I agreed.

I paused as if carefully assembling the tale in my mind. I wasn't, of course. The pause gave me time to think of what came next--I was making it up as I went along. Suddenly, I remembered a line I'd heard in a sitcom.

"The sea was angry that day, my friend," I declared, feeling it was just the thing to grab attention. I wasn't thinking only of the barista but Wonder, too. After all, she'd heard it all before, and it seemed only right to mix in a few new details she's never heard.

“What does the sea have to do with it?” asked the barista, with a furrowed brow. I didn't like the change of expression.

“It’s just a line from Seinfeld that I've always liked. George Costanza said it. He was a marine biologist and it seemed to work for him.”

“I’m pretty sure George wasn’t a marine biologist,” said Ms. Wonder, with the confidence reserved for people who've spent too much time binging ’90s sitcoms.

“No, you’re right—he wasn’t,” I said, with a forced chuckle, hoping to keep it light. “But he said he was, to impress a girl."

Then, addressing the barista again, I said, "It’s a thing men do sometimes. You know--lie.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To impress a girl?”

“Exactly. A noble tradition as old as time,” I assured her, though it was difficult to stifle the grin.

“I’m confused,” admitted the barista, tilting her head like a bird considering a shiny object.

A storyteller’s greatest fear isn’t being questioned about the details—it’s losing their audience. And while one person doesn’t make a crowd, the principle is the same.

“What I’m trying to say,” I clarified, “is that the story of how we met doesn’t paint me in the most flattering light. I was simply trying to dress it up a little, make it more interesting.”

“I have no doubt I’ll be impressed,” she said. “So, how about you tell it without the embellishments?”

Well, after that, how could I hold back?

“It was a dark and stormy night,” I began before her exasperated look stopped me mid-sentence.

“Fine, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Here’s the unvarnished truth...”

When I finished, the barista had a wistful look in her eye. She was probably wondering if she'd ever be part of a love story like that of Ms. Wonder and me. And she wasn't the only one impressed.

"Thank you, for all those sweet words," Ms. Wonder said. I’m happy we work together so well on our creative visions. You’re not just my life partner, you're my best..."

"Hold it right there, Wonder," I said, like a traffic cop holding up a hand to stop runaway traffic. "You're about to say 'best friend,' and nothing good ever comes of that. Too much pressure. The stakes are absurdly high."

"I was going to say, collaborator," she replied. "I treasure our time together and look forward to many more years."

"You're the treasure," I said, striking a tone suitable for a romantic epic.

"No, you are," said the Wonder, quickly picking up on my intention.

"No, Wonder, you are," I insisted leaning in to add topspin to the effect, "and I'll always be here for you." 

"Well, alright," she said. "If you insist, I'm the treasure."

"That's m'baby!" I said. It was a nice finish, I thought. How about you? Do you approve? Not too overdone, I hope?

Why I Write

As a proud member of the elite group awarded a mood disorder (not that it’s invitation-only), I often find life to be a bit challenging. 

On smooth days, I navigate with all the grace of a kitten riding atop a Roomba. But when life throws a curveball? Well, you can usually find me in a heap on the floor, wondering how I got there and whether it’s socially acceptable to stay there.

If a touch of madness sounds intriguing, I'm sorry, the prerequisites are shrouded in mystery. I suspect it’s managed by one of those shadowy secret societies we hear so much about—likely the same group who spread the rumor that eating kale is a thing.

Mood disorder or not, life has a way of keeping us all on edge. One minute, you’re on top of the world, and the next, you’ve been express-elevatored to the bargain basement of emotions with no time to hit the brakes. It’s an emotional rollercoaster, and let’s be honest, nobody asked for the fast pass.

But fear not, dear reader! Over time, I’ve discovered the key to surviving this chaotic mess we call existence: humor. A good laugh is like a beacon in the fog—guiding you through the chaos and reminding you that, despite it all, life can still be ridiculous and wonderful.

That’s why I started this blog: to share the absurdities and laughter I stumble upon in my daily life. Whether it’s a truly baffling conversation overheard on public transit or a customer service interaction so hilariously bad it deserves its own sitcom, I’m here to document it. 

My hope is that by sharing these moments, I can brighten your day—even if just a little—and remind you that you’re not alone in this bizarre world of ours.

Now, I won’t sugarcoat it: finding humor when you’re up to your neck in the soup of life isn’t always easy. Some days, the best you can do is manage a weak chuckle while clutching your coffee like it’s a life preserver. But trust me, with practice, it gets easier. 

And when you find a way to smile, even in the chaos, you’ll realize it’s like an emotional superpower—a small but mighty victory.

So here’s the deal: I write about my life, but I aim to highlight the lighter side. My hope is that you’ll find something here to make you smile, laugh, or at least nod in sympathetic exasperation. 

Together, you and I will wade through the world’s collective nonsense and emerge just a little more Zen—or at the very least, a little more caffeinated.

But let me offer a friendly warning: once you’ve dipped your toe into my world, there’s no going back. This blog is the literary equivalent of the Hotel California: 

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Welcome to the ride. I hope you brought snacks.

Sleeping With the Morrigan

"Why is your bed a wreck every morning?" asked Ms. Wonder when I finally stumbled into the kitchen.

It was tough to come up with a sensible answer, but not because of the question. All questions are hard to answer within the first hour of waking up. I did my best under the circumstances.

"My life is a struggle, Poopsie. And not just during my waking hours. I struggle all night too."

"I know," she said in that sweet, understanding way she has that makes me feel like that puppy we saw yesterday in Port City Java. "I have an idea," she said. "How about seeing Dr. Coast weekly, whether you need it or not?"

It was a fair suggestion. Dr. Coast is my therapist, and I admit that it sounded appealing, but I realized she had gotten the wrong impression.

"It's not anxiety and depression that I wrestle with all night," I said. "It's the Morrigan sisters."

"The Morgan sisters?" she mused.

"No, Poopsie. You're thinking of the Morgan sisters who were very popular in American high society in the first half of the twentieth century."

"There was high society in the United States?" she asked.

"It was a brief period," I said. "But the Morrigan is a terrible Celtic triple goddess from the Iron Age."

"That's why you don't sleep well!" she exclaimed with a little more heat than I was prepared for. It was sweet heat but a surprise nonetheless. Do people still say 'nonetheless'? 

"I know who Morrigan is," she said. "You're staying up late playing Darkstalker, aren't you?"

"No, Poopsie," I said. "You're thinking of Morrigan Aensland, the adopted daughter of the demon king. I'm talking about the Celtic triple goddess popular in the Iron Age."

"How do you know about Morrigan Aensland if you don't play the video game?"

"I didn't say I never play. I said the games don't keep me up late."

"I'm not convinced," she said, "but let's set that aside for now. How does the triple goddess fit into your dreams? Be careful how you answer because I'm going to Google 'triple goddess.'"

"Before we get into it, Wonder, I want to tell you about the Magnificent Morgan Sisters—that's what they were called in the 1940s."

"Stop avoiding the question," she said with more noticeable heat. It was touching, I admit, but my mind was on a different track.  

"The photographer Cecil Beaton," I began, "described the twin sisters as 'alike as two magnolias,' with marble complexions, raven tresses, and flowing dresses. He said they diffuse an atmosphere of hothouse elegance and lacy femininity."

Wonder raised a hand, and she did it with authority. "Stop," she said. "Forget the Magnificent Morgans. Get to the Morrigan, please, or I'm zooming out of here."

"Sure," I said, "but I'm going to use that line about hothouse elegance in a blog post soon."

She shot out of her chair and was three steps up the staircase before I could stop her.  

"Wonder, the Morrigan are three sisters, Mabd, Macha, and Nemain, who rule disharmony, war, and death. Bad is what they are."

"Just to be clear," she said, "we're talking about ancient Irish mythology, right?"

"We're talking about my darkest dreams. Each night for the past week, I've dreamed of being trapped in an escape room. No matter how many clues I find and doors I open, there's another obstacle waiting for me on the other side, and the obstacles are the work of the Morrigan."

"I hear them, whispering and laughing--taunting me. I struggle to escape, but my efforts only get me wrapped up in bedclothes. I can appreciate what it was like for Jacob to wrestle the angel until daybreak. He wrestled one, but I wrestle three."

"What angels?"

"Wonder! You know about Jacob and the angel wrestling until daybreak."

"She raised a questioning eyebrow and said, "Are you making this up?"

"Documented fact," I said. "Jacob received a blessing for his ordeal, but all I get is a rumpled bed."

"And you expect me to accept all that drivel as an answer to my question? Do you want to know what I think? I think you're struggling with Princess Amy all night. That's what I think."

"It's a reasonable explanation," I said. "But I hear the Morrigan whispering, laughing, taunting. If it happens again tonight, I'll challenge Amy just in case she has something to do with it."

"But no matter how it turns out, I will use Cecil Beaton's gag in my next blog post. Hothouse elegance and lacy femininity! Can you imagine? I've got to Google hothouse elegance right now."

Hello Kitten

Good morning and welcome back to The Circular Journey. I'm happy you're here. I have something I'd like to discuss with you, and what I have to share begins with mornings, as do most things.

When I wake each morning, I’m not fully awake for the first second or two. I’m conscious, of course, but not fully tuned in to the world. I’m in a different state of mind. The same is true for you—it’s a universal experience.

A few days ago, in that first hazy moment, I was greeted by a voice in my head, but it wasn’t my voice. It was far too bizarre to belong to me. My immediate thought was: What the hell?

“Hello, Kitten,” is what the voice said. I thought it odd, but didn't dwell on it long. I simply wrote it off as just one of those things.

A few days later, I was greeted by an even stranger voice: “Hello, I’m Claudia from Sweden.” This time, the voice was part of a vivid waking dream. This Swedish Claudia met me in an airport lobby. She seemed nice enough--friendly and smiling--though I’m unclear on her travel itinerary.

A few days later, the morning voice ratcheted up the absurdity: “Columbia’s wife,” it said. No dream vision this time. This morning, I heard the most bizarre greeting yet, “Dong Dien,” said the voice. I know! A foreign language! 

I Googled it and found a village in Vietnam inside the Pu Luong Nature Reserve near hiking trails leading to mountain peaks. Go figure. What next? 

By now, I’d had enough. I enjoy writing about silliness and absurdities, but there's a limit. I decided to confront this nonsense head-on. When the final message came, I didn’t respond politely. “Who are you?” I demanded. I didn't expect an answer, but I got one.

“The better question, my friend, is: Who are you?” said a voice. But this time, it wasn’t the original voice. This voice belonged to Princess Amy. (If you’re unfamiliar with Amy, you can find her in previous posts. Just use the search bar on the blog’s homepage—you’re welcome.)

Well, I knew better than to expect sensible answers from Amy, and I resented her getting involved. 

“My friends know me as Genome,” I said, delivering the line in the coldest, most imperious tone I could muster. And believe me, that’s saying something.

At this point, I realized I might never get a straight answer—and perhaps I didn’t want one. Life is complicated enough without allowing Swedish airport ambassadors and unsolicited royal commentary into the mix. 

If those voices return tomorrow morning, I’m taking action. I will no longer tolerate philosophy before coffee. And if Princess Amy insists on butting in, she’d better bring donuts.

Channeling Wodehouse

Waterford was slowly waking under the embrace of a bright mid-winter sun. Songbirds chanted their morning chorus as though reveling in the sunshine and the unbroken expanse of blue sky overhead. The squirrel community, however, wasn't paying attention. They lounged atop the fenceposts, contentedly napping like cats on a windowsill.

Inside the cozy walls of 1313 Bluebird Lane, I sat nursing a latte, awaiting the descent of Ms. Wonder from her upper-level sanctum. My eye caught a rippling shimmer near the base of the staircase, and with that, she appeared. It's a mystery how she does it.

"Good morning, Wonder. Marvelous to see you. I want to tell you something. As you know, I'm currently on a reading frenzy."

"You're on a feeding frenzy? Like a shark?"

"Not a feeding frenzy, Poopsie. I said, reading—a reading frenzy. But I'm happy you got the words mixed up. Of course, it's an easy thing to do, and there's a wheeze in there somewhere. I'll use it in my next blog post."

"If you're going to continue with puns and jokes all morning, I'm going back upstairs."

"No, wait, Poops, I think you're going to like what I have to say."

"If you're going to make me listen to puns all morning, I might just go back upstairs."

"Fine," I said. "Let me marshal my thoughts, and I'll give it to you skinny."

"Good," she said, and I used the next few moments to marshal. Once I'd worked out the outline, I was good to go. The outline must be properly organized to tell a story well. The rhythm will sort itself out once the speaker gets up to cruising speed.

"Wonder, I think you're familiar with the work of Sir Michael Caine, the legendary actor?"

"The actor in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels?"

"That's right, and many other films—all of them gems; none of them flops. I've always enjoyed watching him in movies, at awards shows, and on talk shows."

"Yeah, he was a fine actor."

"Precisely! "He was a master at transforming himself into different characters, all of them believably authentic."

A sudden clapping interrupted my story. It was Ms. Wonder clapping her hands together very close to my face. I stopped talking and gave her a stern look.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It had to be done. You were caught in a self-induced trance. I feared you might get stuck and not be able to find your way back."

"Wonder! That's the most ridiculous excuse you've ever dreamed up to get out of hearing one of my stories. And this one has special meaning to me."

"Okay then, I surrender. Let's hear it."

"The question that came to mind when watching Sir Michael or any of my favorite actors was this: How do we know when a truly accomplished actor stops acting? How do we know the personality being interviewed on late-night TV or making an acceptance speech isn't another act?"

"That's interesting," she said. "A lot of fun to think about, but probably nothing someone hasn’t asked before. In fact, I know it isn’t new because I've asked myself the same question."

"Exactly!" I said, and I said it with a lot of topspin. I’m not exactly sure why I responded so vigorously. Perhaps I wanted to disrupt the whim we had going.

"There's a comparable idea when you consider authors. When are they being transparent and allowing us to see their honest persona, and when are they creating fiction?"

"It sounds much like what you do in The Circular Journey."

"Exactly!" I said again, wondering if I was teetering on the brink of being clapped down again. All those exclamations were making me feel rather bucked.

"Wonder, I've always thought I’d led an unconventional life—one that others might find interesting. I've wanted to write a sort of autobiography but felt too self-conscious. By fictionalizing my life in The Circular Journey, I feel that I'm writing my autobiography in an oblique way."

At this point, the lovely Wonder Worker, who had been listening attentively (bless her heart) with bright eyes and a pleasant expression, opened her mouth to comment. I was happy to see her hanging onto every word, but I couldn’t let her interrupt now, so I pressed on.

"In other words, Poopsie, am I and my life the ultimate creation of my writing career? Of course, I write about actual events in my daily life, but I never shove something into the story just because it happened, and I never let facts get in the way of a good story. Wodehouse was the same."

"I’ve been following in my hero’s footsteps without realizing it. My readers get to know me, not through my ego's bluster but from every word that proceedeth from the mouth of my higher power--P.G. Wodehouse."

Her expression changed when she heard those words. It lost some of the enthusiasm and took on a more skeptical hue.

"Oh?" she said. "You channel P.G. Wodehouse, do you?"

"Oh, I’m so glad you agree!" I said. "Now I can quote you in today’s blog post."

"And so," she said, "now that you’ve documented that small caveat lector, why not get on with it? I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do."

And with that, she seemed to shimmer once more before disappearing upstairs.

Yesterday Once More

"Poopsie," I announced as I walked into the kitchen and found her enjoying the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: I'm finally on the road to 'Find Out.'"

Yesterday Once More ~~ The Carpenters

Her face lit up like the Christmas lights on the Riverwalk and I'm pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye. I half expected her to throw her arms around me and ask, Where have you been all my life? Nothing like that happened, but she did ask, "Is that the funny little town near Zebulon?"

"No, you're probably thinking of Lizard Lick, but honestly, Zebulon is a funny enough name on its own."

"Wait, a second," she said. "I've got it. It's called Horneytown, Isn't it?"

"Horneytown isn't near anything," I said, "and what I'm trying to tell you is..."

"Tick Bite!" she said. "The name of the town is Tick Bite."

"Tick Bite is lost somewhere in the eastern flat lands," I said. "It hasn't been seen since the big blow of 07. Wonder, take a deep breath, and relax. Find Out isn't a place at all--it's a journey of self-discovery."

"Why do you keep saying it with capital letters if it's not a proper noun?"

"It's the name of a song, Poopsie, a song by the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens. And it's not only a song title, it's a state of being--actively seeking and accepting the lessons in whatever life sends your way."

"Oh,", she said with a quizzical expression, followed by an awkward silence.

"You see," I said. "when I look back at all the good times I had in years gone by, it makes today look rather sad. So much has changed. But I've found a possible solution to all that."

"Okay," she said, "I've heard this before but let's get on with it. What've you got?"

"It's like this," I explained. "I attended a meeting at the recovery center yesterday, and one of the speakers reminded me of the Buddha's message: desire is the root of all unhappiness. In one of his poems, Rumi even suggested we stop resisting the slings and arrows and embrace them instead."

As I spoke those words, another adage came to mind, although I couldn't remember the source. I mentioned it anyway. "I believe Rumi's words were, When life sends lemons to your door, invite them in and make lemonade. It's not an exact quote."

"That's not what he said," she moaned, "and his name is pronounced "room-ie," not "ruhm-ie. But go on--I'm listening."

"I've decided to give it a try. I'll stop fighting the things I can't change and focus on accepting myself, flaws and all. To smooth the flow, I'll sing the old songs I love so much, and it will seem like yesterday once more. I believe the Buddha would be proud of me."

"Why are you talking so fast? And why bring the Buddha into it? You say you're Buddhist, of course, but I think you make it up as you go along."

"Am I talking fast?"

"So, you're planning to find serenity by simply accepting your life as it is? You're going to give up your desires, forget about your dreams, and be content with what you have?"

"Well, it doesn't sound very appealing the way you put it," I said. "But remember, Poosie, I still have cherished memories of a life well-lived – a reminder of what I once had."

"Will the memories of your rock star days in the ‘80s be enough for you?" she asked.

"Those were such happy times," I said. "It seems like only yesterday. I can get those feelings back, like finding a long-lost friend, and it will seem like yesterday again."

"You think so, do you? Those happy times will come back all on their own if you only let them?"

"I'm tired of struggling, Poopsie. I did the math, and I'll never finish that book. I'll never be known for my shaman's dreams. I'm going to surrender to the fate of old age, and when I stop fighting everything, I'll find the serenity you mentioned earlier."

"So you're prepared to dine on mud pies and dandelion roots? Your motto, 'Eat no pine needles!' can fly out the window."

 

"Wait a minute," I said.

"That's right," she said. “Give up the struggle and live happy, joyous, and free."

My knees buckled and I sank into a heap on the floor. I felt a strange lightness--a lightness that felt hollow. It didn't come from a release of the burden of care; it was born of having nothing left to lose. I didn't like it.

“It’s never too late, you know.”

“Too late for what?” I asked.

“It’s never too late for right now—for this very moment and this very life. It's never too late.” 

“Do you have any suggestions?”

"I do," she said. "Join me tomorrow for a boat tour of the Cape Fear River. Surrounded by the incredible beauty of the natural world, singing the words to those melodies that sound so good to you, the years will melt away and it will be yesterday once more. I promise you will feel refreshed and re-energized."

"Will I be reborn? Will I become a new man?"

"That's not the way it works. There is no new man. There is only the same man who is singing his songs every day. One day at a time."

"I don't know how you do it, Poopsie. Something about that brain of yours is wondrous. You should donate it to science when you're done with it."

"Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-o-wo-o still shines," she sang. "Every song that I sing is so fine. All the best memories come back clearly to me and, just like before, it's yesterday once more."