The Starting Line

Welcome back to The Circular Journey!

It's great to see you again, but I see that you're here after sunset, which usually means your cable's down or the streaming service is jammed. I do hope that's not the case with you. I'll do my best to keep you entertained until bedtime.

I should mention this isn't a typical Circular Journey post. This one is delightfully unplanned and unrehearsed. You see, I usually write about the absurd events of my day, outlining the details to shape a mildly entertaining story.

Next, I develop the outline into a sort of screenplay. Once I've memorized the script, I complete the final draft. I then let it sit for a day or two, allowing time for all the ingredients to become fully seasoned. Finally, I sprinkle in Princess Amy or the sewer harpies to give it extra zip.

You're probably thinking about now that Ms. Wonder developed this style of blogging for me. I completely understand why you'd think that. But I actually came up with the tactic myself through much trial and error. And I'm quite pleased with the results. I enjoy reading my posts immensely.

It's not only me who enjoys this nonsense. Thousands follow The Circular Journey, and I often receive flattering comments, which, let me tell you, make my day. I hope you leave one when you finish today's post. Here's a recent one from Hal K.:

"I particularly enjoyed reading this post. It has such a strong, distinctive voice. I especially loved the part about the writers 'frisking in perfect masses' and the clever "fake to the right" technique with the inflected vowels."

Thanks for your continued support Hal K.

The trigger for this missive comes from a bit I heard on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. In his monologue--he calls it a monologue but it's actually a conversation with his gay robot skeleton and 'not-a-real-horse'.

"The four-man bobsled teams are comprised of specialists with specific responsibilities," Craig said. "One man is called the pusher, responsible for getting the bobsled off to a fast start. The other three are the pimp, the hustler, and the player."

You're surely wondering why that silly joke stuck with me, and I'll tell you. As soon as he said it, I thought, "Why don't I think of stuff like that?"

Let's be honest, the joke isn't funny. Still, it's a thought that fits my style of comedy, and if I'd thought it, I'd have polished it right up to the starting line (or punchline). I'd turn that little nugget into comedic gold.

And there's the rub, isn't it? We creators are our own worst critics, comparing our behind-the-scenes footage to everyone else's highlight reel. I'm losing sleep over a joke about bobsledding, while Craig Ferguson is probably lying awake wondering why he never thought of my bit about a GPS that gives directions in riddles.

Creativity isn't a competition. It's more like... imagine a four-person bobsled team where one person is the writer, one is the inner critic, one is the procrastinator, and one is the coffee maker. Sometimes, they work in perfect harmony. Other times, the inner critic gets too loud, the procrastinator refuses to push, and the coffee maker is too depressed to froth the milk.

But you know what? My bobsled team keeps showing up, and I'll bet your team does, too. We keep pushing that sled to the starting line, and sometimes, we get brilliant ideas that make others say, "Why didn't I think of that?"

I'm writing this raw, unedited post at an hour when sensible people are binge-watching their favorite shows. Maybe I should be doing the same--stop striving for perfection and simply wing it. I'd have much more time for YouTube clips of the Late Late Show.

Thank you for joining me tonight. I love having you here, so please come back soon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to work on my new bit about a meditation app narrated by a passive-aggressive qigong master. Unless Ferguson beat me to that idea, too.

A New Wilmawood Movie Masterpiece

I hadn't planned on stopping at the coffee shop that morning. But fate, as it often does, had other ideas—like an overzealous cousin who insists you attend a gathering of relatives you've been dodging since Christmas.

The moment I stepped inside, I spotted Jack holding court at a corner table while Lupe, Claudia, and Island Irv watched with expressions ranging from amusement to weary resignation.

 You will remember Jack as the writer I met recently who assured me I'd love Hollywood. Apparently, he moved there to become a screenwriter but left for reasons unknown to this writer—I'd guess he was either fired or indicted.

"That hasn't been proven yet," I heard Claudia say, stirring her latte with the air of a woman who's heard one too many questionable stories before lunch.

"Not yet! But it will be!" Jack announced, nearly upending his espresso with the flourish of an orchestra conductor on his fourth coffee.

"Jack is telling us about the latest movie to be filmed in Wilmington," said Lupe, in the tone of someone reporting their neighbors believe they've been abducted by aliens.

"I have a friend at Cinespace Studios with a copy of the screenplay," Jack said. "He called offering me a scoop for the New Hanover Review."

Lupe turned to me. "What do you think?"

I understood the reason for questioning the facts of the story. "Well, my first reaction is 'no way'—there should have been press coverage by now. But assuming it's true, who's in it?"

"Oh, it's true," he said, glancing around with a furtive air before lowering his voice. "Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum."

"That's surely not true," I said. "Fresh off 'Fly Me to the Moon,' they're one of Hollywood's hottest pairs."

"That's what everyone says," Jack said, and I swear to you, he puffed up like a peacock.

"And that's not the half of it," he said, and suddenly, his eyes took on a dreamy look. "This production is going all out—creating a helluva wardrobe for her. This picture will have glitz."

I looked at the others around the table. Everyone shrugged. I sought frantically for something to say that wouldn't bring him down. Goodness and light is what I'm known for.

"Audiences are dying for glitz," I said.

"Tell Genome the storyline," said Claudia, placing her spoon on the table with a precision that became her well.

Jack stood and began pacing around the table like a barrister about to deliver the summation that would save his client from the gallows. "Johansson plays Zaira Nazarie, a quantum theorist at the IBM Watson Research Center."

"That's well and good, but what's the story?"

Jack clapped his hands with the ecstatic look of a writer who's just heard that the studio wants to option his screenplay.

"Quantum computers suffer errors unknown to classical computers--errors that standard techniques can't fix," he intoned, as though reading from an invisible teleprompter. "Scarlett is summoned to develop technology to detect and correct these errors as they occur."

"Good start," I said, nodding like a dashboard ornament.

"No one else understands the technology, but her leadership prevails. Before she's done, she and her staff accomplish heroic labors and save the free world from communist-dominated error correction."

My eyebrows climbed toward my hairline as though trying to escape the wonderland we seemed destined for.

"She turns up at a high-level Washington meeting in a truly divine outfit. In one scene, she says to the President, 'Hello, kiddo. Can't you just see it?'"

"But where does that lead?" I asked.

"The plot asks: 'Can a girl from New Jersey direct a high-security political scheme without becoming disenchanted with the government?'"

"Sounds like a crisis of confidence."

"Absolutely. When subordinates led by a Marine lieutenant colonel, portrayed by Tatum, attempt to sidestep the project with the Russians, our heroine manages it like a strong, empowered woman."

"How's that?" I asked, feeling like Alice tumbling down that rabbit hole.

"She uncovers a Russian spy on her team who's working for the Chinese. The climax features a hair-pulling catfight between our gal and the Chinese spy on the Capitol steps."

He looked at us as though expecting our comments but we sat there with our confusion hanging like fog over the Memorial Bridge.

"Oh, is that the time?" he suddenly exclaimed, glancing at his watch. "I'm late!" 

He gulped his coffee and exited the cafe before anyone could throw a napkin dispenser at him. After his departure, my companions turned to me. "Well?" they said in syncopation.

"I don't feel good about it," I admitted.

Later, as I went about my day, I kept thinking about his bizarre story. I drove past the café in the afternoon and recognized Jack's car parked across the street. I found him inside looking as blue as heartache.

"My friend didn't have the screenplay," he said. "The studio's keeping everything locked up."

"Who is your source, anyway? The guy who works at Cinespace?"

"You wouldn't know him. He hangs out at Barbary Coast Bar with the other movie reviewers."

"Barbary Coast? Was Jamaican rum involved?" I asked, seeing the whole picture with clarity.

"He was drinking rum," he admitted finally.

"Jack," I said with more sympathy than I'd felt before now. "You should have read my blog post titled, 'Time for a Cool Change.' Intel from the Barbary Coast Bar will be sketchy at best when Jamaican rum is on hand.

He didn't take the news well. "Don't be too upset, bro. A new movie will begin filming in Wilmawood soon. It's called 'Driver's Ed' with Molly Shannon and Kumail Nanjiani in the lead roles. It's directed by the Farrelly Brothers. It should be fun. Start reading The Circular Journey blog to stay updated."

The Writer's Life For Me

If you've been following The Circular Journey, you know I've wholeheartedly embraced the life of a writer. My brain, functioning like a finely tuned large language model AI chatbot, can't get enough of it.  

I find the writing community in Wilmawood to be truly special. I see writers bustling in large groups around every movie set I visit. Their excited gossip about the actors makes it impossible to mistake them for anything other than freelance writers for the local media.  

At places like Wrightsville Beach, I have to watch where I step to avoid stepping on toes. The demand for authors in this online, information-driven world is exhausting. My phone constantly buzzes with messages from writing recruiters on LinkedIn.  

Just the other day at Coastal Grounds Cafe, I sat near a man who appeared to be a science fiction writer. When I pulled my spiral-bound notebook from my messenger bag, his eyes lit up like a child discovering an unattended cookie on the counter.  

"Where did you find the loose-leaf notebook?" he asked excitedly. "Those things have gotten pricey now that everyone's gone digital."  

"I know," I replied, thinking this guy might be worth the risk of starting a conversation. "I was jotting some notes in this one yesterday when a guy approached me with a wrinkled forehead and said, "I remember people doing what you're doing; what's it called again?'"  

My new friend didn't laugh or smile. Instead, he wrinkled his forehead just like the man I was describing.  

"He was joking," I said to ease his brow.  

"Oh," he responded. "Well, everything is getting more expensive all the time. Notebooks like that cost at least five dollars at Walmart."  

"I get these at the Dollar Store," I said, hoping the mention of the store would convey that he should do some bargain hunting. But my work was in vain. He continued to lament the rising cost of everything and drowned out my words.  

Once he got his economic grievances out of his system, he predictably asked if I'd like to read something he was writing for a local periodical—a movie review. I won't mention the title of the film to protect the reputation of the writer and director.  

He described the movie as "a powerful drama about life as it's experienced by the Taylor-crazed, caffeine-fueled younger generation whose hollow laughter masks an aching heart." If that wasn't enough to question a review meant for local publication, the movie wasn't filmed anywhere near the Carolinas.  

"What do you think?" he asked.

When writers corner me and beg for my thoughts on their prose, I use inflection to suggest I'm complimenting their work. It's a sort of 'fake to the right' technique I learned from watching professional basketball. It generally baffles the simple-minded.    

"It certainly leaves no doubt," I said, emphasizing the vowels, "there's a strong hint of a good story in it. I look forward to seeing what you do with it."  

The man then launched into a breathless reverie: "You would love Hollywood, you know. Everybody does. Surrounded by the everlasting hills, bathed in eternal sunshine."

He paused for a moment, deep in thought. I was about to respond in a way that would make my excuses and then leave, but before I spoke, he continued.

"And if you aren't getting divorced yourself, there's always one of your friends who is, providing plenty to chat in the coffee cabarets. It isn't as crazy a place as they make it out to be, you know. I know a couple of writers there who are relatively sane."  

His comment resonated with me. I once romanticized the idea of going to Hollywood, but that was then. Now, I prefer my quiet days in the Brunswick savannah. Life is wonderful there. I've never experienced such a frenzy of composition. As time goes on, I find that all I need is Ms. Wonder, a few true friends, a steady supply of books, and the choice of one or more cats or dogs.  

Though I must admit, I recently reviewed and recommended a book I haven't read at the author's request, and the results were positive. It just goes to show that no matter how good life is, there's always something else to consider. 

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.

Cats Are Forever

Eternal Companions

The bond between humans and cats is as unshakeable as faith. Ancient Egyptians revered them as gods. We may not be as worshipful as the Egyptians, but we still rearrange our lives to accommodate each cat's unique preferences.

Beignet Lafayette, one of our personal deities, claimed three thrones in our house: my pillow when I wasn't using it, my keyboard when I was using it, and when he felt particularly benevolent, my lap.

I've learned that cats have a universal set of priorities. The top place is eating. The second place priority is sleeping. Everything else comes in a distant third to the first two. It makes me wonder if cats may have been sent to remind us that true lasting joy is found in simply existing?

The Joys of Cat Logic

Cats have an internal logic that defies explanation but demands admiration. For instance, a cardboard box on the floor is instantly more appealing than the $40 bed I bought online after reading countless glowing reviews from cat owners.

Similarly, Sagi M'Tesi would paw at the door to go out on the screened porch, only to sit on the threshold for ten minutes as though caught between existential dread and the allure of a slightly warmer breeze.

We may consider these quirks puzzling, but to cats, they’re the foundations of a good life. They may be onto something--why settle for the expected when an unexpected surprise is so much more entertaining?

Life Lessons

If cats had mottos, they’d be deceptively simple: ‘Do what feels right, when it feels right, and only on your terms.’ For example, the unapologetic way they claim space teaches us about setting boundaries. My writing chair? It was claimed by Eddy Peabody, and any protest was met with a slow blink of feline indifference.

They also remind us to live in the moment. When a cat naps in the sun, they nap fully, unbothered by the to-do list piling up around them. It’s not laziness; it’s mindfulness. It may look like laziness, but the lesson is there for anyone willing to pay attention. As my meditation master used to say, "When you nap--nap! Don't plan your future."

Love, Cat Style

Love in cat language is a many-splendored thing, often hidden beneath a veil of dignified aloofness. A headbutt against your hand is not just affection but an official claim: ‘You’re mine now.’”

Cats often express their affection in surprising ways. One common gesture is a slow blink, which indicates complete trust. Lucy, the feral Siamese kitten who watched over our front door at Chatsford Hall, frequently showed her love by leaving a mouse for us to find. Each day we found her gift was Valentine's Day.

Another sign of devoted love is the midnight serenade at the bottom of the staircase. It was Abbie Hoffman's way (no, not that Abbie Hoffman) of saying, I love you.

But make no mistake—cats love deeply and silently, demonstrating that true affection doesn’t need to be flashy. Sometimes, it can be as simple as having a warm, purring presence beside you on a cold evening. Uma Maya had a talent for nestling with me in a way that was so comforting, I looked forward to it every night.

Cats Are Forever

Cats quietly enter our lives and soon fill every corner with their unique quirks, wisdom, and steadfast companionship. They teach us to slow down, find joy in the little things, and bask in the warmth of love—whether it’s the sunbeam they’ve claimed as their own or the spot on the couch next to you.

Long after they leave paw prints on the furniture and in our hearts, their lessons continue to resonate. Cats are eternal because they remind us of a simple truth we often forget: life is better when we embrace it with curiosity, comfort, and a healthy dose of mischief.

Genome in La La Land

Let's face it - The Circular Journey's views are stagnant, and I don't like it. I'm used to seeing views increase as I become more consistent. But I've been consistent as dammit for the last few months, and no response. While ups and downs are normal in blogging, the current malaise, while not in the red zone, is deep into the yellow. 

"Merv" is a Belgian malinois

I'm not expecting Fitzgerald or Faulkner's numbers. On the Jeff Goldblum Scale™ of literary excellence, those guys are solid fives. The Journey deserves a rating of two Goldblums, and honestly? I'm proud of that, and I intend to defend that rating.

After some deep diving (aka frantic Googling), I stumbled upon publishing's oldest trick: nothing sells like scandal. American publishers dream of getting banned in Texas or Florida, while their British cousins pray for angry bishops denouncing their books from pulpits. 

One good "This is outrageous!" from clergy, and boom - 10,000 new readers faster than you can say "forbidden fruit."

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm taking the first step on my quest for infamy. After considering all options for being banned from polite society (my usual strategy of bad puns having failed spectacularly), I've settled on a simple plan--simplicity is essential. I'm going to praise Hollywood East.

So here's my master plan for infamy: I'm going full Hollywood East fanboy. That's right - I'm embracing the film industry in Wilmington, aka "Wilmawood." 

Some people believe that Hollywood is the express route to moral decay, so perhaps singing the praises of our local film scene will finally earn TCJ the condemnation it needs to bring the attention it deserves. What one person sees as a den of iniquity, another may see as a smart SEO strategy.

My own forays into local showbiz have been... memorable. Like the time I nearly got kicked off "The Waterfront" set for stalking actors portraying DEA agents, hoping for a video. (Shoutout to that angel of a Production Assistant who hid me in plain sight - genius move!)

 Then there was my spectacular failure to get anywhere near "The Runarounds" - a show about struggling musicians that, fittingly enough, gave me nothing but the runaround.

The first step on my quest for infamy will be the next blog post. The scoop on the heartwarming romantic comedy, "Merv," the tale of a depressed dog playing cupid. Writing about a clinically depressed pooch restoring broken relationships has got to ruffle someone's feathers, right? 

Zooey Deschanel (Queen of Twee herself) is in the starring role and she's joined by some other people--just kidding--Charlie Cox plays opposite Deschanel.  

Downtown Wilmington was the location for much of the film and some scenes were filmed right outside Luna Cafe! Kure Beach, south of the city, doubled as the setting for Florida. Don't question a North Carolina beach becoming the setting for sunny Florida. Ocean Isle Beach, near my home, has become Atlantis for me. 

Wilmawood's turning our city into something special - a place where talent meets opportunity and where you sometimes find zombie extras standing in line at your local cafeinery. 

It's time for individuals with exceptional talent and determination to make a difference. Or in my case, when a blogger with mediocre talent and questionable judgment can at least make people laugh while trying.

So here's to my new mission: championing Wilmawood, one possibly controversial post at a time. Best case? New readers. Worst case? An angry letter from someone who takes themselves way too seriously. Either way, I'm calling that a solid 2.5 Goldblums.

Queen Esther

"I'm going out to Queen Esther's place in Bayshore this morning. I want to get some custom tea. You want to ride with me?" These were the words Ms. Wonder said to me when I emerged from the dream machine one weekend morning.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not quite fully awake and I thought I heard you say something about Queen Esther?"

"Yes, I've run out of the custom tea she makes for me, and it's such a nice day, I thought we'd take the scenic view."

Here we go again, I thought. So many things in so few words. You know how I like to get things right. I mean, Queen Esther? As far as I'm aware, there was only one Queen E., and 'she came to her position for such a time as this,' according to King James.  However, I doubt the original Queen Esther came to her position by brewing custom tea blends for her husband.

The Wonder had me at "ride with me." I never refuse an opportunity to ride shotgun when she drives--I was all in. Beyond that, I happen to know that Bayshore is just off Ocean Highway, and that highway is the most scenic on the coast. 

It's difficult, if not impossible, to choose an ocean route that isn't scenic. In fact, you'd have to deliberately drive with your eyes closed to avoid the scenery, which I don't recommend for reasons I don't recommend riding bicycles using no hands.

Fortunately, I'm discovering there are times to speak up and there are times to shut up. This time was one of the latter. By the way, are you impressed with my personal growth? I know I am, even if I'm alone in thinking it.

The scenic route took us to Queen Esther's Apothecary, where the namesake provided us with a jarful of sea moss and a couple of bags of custom tea tailored to our individual needs. Mine was labeled "Shut Up and Listen Blend"--apparently Esther is not just an herbalist; she's also psychic.

As we exchanged goodbyes, Kendel and Buster entered the shop. Buster held a placard (I think that's what it's called--maybe it was a poster or even next week's lottery numbers for all I knew). He began urging me to hold the thing and pose for photos. Then, swinging a hidden camera from his hip like some sort of artistic gunslinger, he began focusing the lens and giving me directions.

"Yeah, that's it," he said, snapping the shutter. "Now smile--give me a big ole' smile. Right there! Perfect." It seems I'll be the model for next week's social media campaign, called 'Just Make Art.' I couldn't help but think Buster might just as well have said, 'Just stand there looking confused.'

Finally, he put the camera away and took the placard out of my hand, and Kendel held up a swag of t-shirts. "Help yourself to a free shirt," he said. "Which one do you like?"

"I'll take the red one," I said.

"Yeah," said Buster. "Red is good. The green might be too much color for you."

It was the first time I'd heard that green is more colorful than red. You may be better informed about the color hierarchy. It's a mystery to me, but it didn't matter; it was a free t-shirt and who am I to question the color philosophies of someone who gives me free clothing?

"What a great day," I said to Wonder as we drove away.

"Let's stop at River Pottery," she said. "They're going out of business and selling everything at discount prices. "Well, you heard her--I had no choice; she was driving. The words "discount prices" have the same effect on Wonder that "free food" has on a college student.

She decided to walk the store in one direction, and she sent me in the other. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but apparently, it's better if I don't accompany her when she's shopping. Something about my sighs being "too dramatic."

As soon as I turned the first corner, I heard someone yell, "Genome!" But I ignored it, thinking I hadn't heard correctly--the thought never entered my mind that I might stumble over someone I know.

"Genome!" said the voice again. This time I assumed there was another Genome in the store and kept walking. Because what are the odds of running into someone you know in a pottery store? Now I think about it, the odds must be about the same as finding two people called Genome.

But the voice didn't give up easily. He circled around and headed me off at the pass. It was my old friend Cisco from Chatsford, proving that either the world is smaller than we think, or I'm not as invisible as I sometimes want to be.

You may not remember Cisco—he's mentioned in some of my older posts—but I'm sure you remember Chatsford. I wrote some of my best work there and have fond memories of the place. We had a great old meetup at the Pottery, and he agreed to meet Island Irv and me at Egret's next Sunday.

What a day! It began as a simple tea run but turned into an impromptu photo shoot, a lesson in color theory I'm still trying to understand, and a surprise reunion. Some might call it just another day in paradise, but I call it another adventure with Ms. Wonder--where even a "quick errand" becomes a story worth telling. 

I'm beginning to suspect, between my "Shut Up and Listen" tea blend and my apparently-not-too-colorful red t-shirt, the universe might be trying to tell me something--she often does try, but I never understand what she's talking about. I'll ask The Wonder about it, I'm sure she'll have some useful insight to share.

Morning Has Broken

Gray skies pressed against my kitchen window as I scattered sunflower seeds for the backyard wildlife. The squirrels were conspicuously absent—probably huddled in their cozy tree nests, avoiding the morning's damp chill. Just like me, they seemed reluctant to fully embrace another depressing day.

Not a single bluebird sang in the forest and I suddenly felt the need for guidance from a higher power, and so I went indoors to seek advice from my personal oracle of wisdom--that's right, Ms. Wonder.

At the bottom of the stairs, I called out, "I've reviewed the work opportunities you suggested!" All I received in response was silence. Typical. When Wonder is in her photography studio, she can tune out the sounds of the Apocalypse or the onset of Judgment Day, and remain focused on adjusting lens apertures.

I entered her workspace, where organized chaos reigned supreme. Abstract photographs on stretched canvas lay strewn across the floor along with camera bodies and lens cases, creating a landscape of professional creativity. She looked up, one eyebrow arched—and a look that implied, What is it this time?

"I've shortlisted three potential career paths," I explained. "But Princess Amy has... concerns."

Ms. Wonder's lips twitched—the closest she ever comes to actually laughing at my concerns. "Let's hear it," she said.

"Your first suggestion seems promising," I said. "Responding to online surveys is appealing, and ZipRecruiter tells me sharing my opinions could bring in as much as $30 hourly. I like the sound of that."

"But Amy has other ideas?" she said.

"She thinks the surveys are used by the Illuminati to harvest thoughts from unsuspecting participants, and then the data is used for their nefarious porpoises."

"Purposes," Ms. Wonder corrected.

"Tonsils," I muttered. "They got in the way. Sorry."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—so deep I worried she'd hyperventilate. "Market research isn't mind control. Those survey rates are likely inflated, but they might provide pocket money while you explore more substantial opportunities."

"That is true," I said. "I'll keep surveys on the shortlist. As for option two, freelance writing, the market shows solid growth and reasonable compensation. But Amy's worried about "word demons."

"Like in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'?" asked The Wonder and her disbelief filled the room. "Word demons?"

I nodded. "She's convinced they might control my creative thoughts. Of course, she's thinking of the sewer harpies, not word demons. She suggested they might cause me to write trashy romance novels--like bodice-rippers--instead of thoughtful essays."

"Let me get this straight," she said, holding up her hand in a universal gesture indicating don't try me too high. "You're worried about mind control and word demons. Now, let’s complete the triad. What’s your concern about temp work? I know you must have one."

"Amy is really worked up about that one. She says temp agencies are modern fairy courts. Unsuspecting mortals sign contracts for light office work, only to find themselves in eternal servitude to the Seely Court."

Ms. Wonder's reality check was swift and surgical. "Temp agencies are businesses matching workers with short-term opportunities. Not portals to alternate dimensions."

Having methodically dismantled Amy's elaborate conspiracy theories, she posed the critical question: "Which option best matches your skills and schedule?"

The answer, suddenly, was crystal clear. "Freelance writing," I admitted. "I can work from home without risking eternal bondage in service to supernatural entities."

"Excellent," she said, returning to her portfolio. "By the way, if you write trashy romance novels, I expect the first one to be dedicated to me."

I smiled. Ms. Wonder had once again transformed my scattered anxieties into a clear vision of the path forward. A new morning had indeed broken, reminiscent of that first morning we shared in Brookgreen Gardens.

A new chapter opened in my life--one filled with possibility. As for Princess Amy, she remained suspiciously quiet—probably plotting her next conspiracy theory.

Espresso Enlightenment

I'd come to Café Luna in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week because being in the Castle Street Arts District always lifts my mood. 

I hoped the artisanal coffee and ambient poetry readings would realign my chakras, or whatever it is that's supposed to happen in places with exposed brick walls. I didn't expect to find anyone I knew at this time of day on this day in the week.

"Wow, Uncle Genome," said an unexpected voice. "You look like something the cat dragged in the morning after the raccoons had their fun with you."

"Lupe!" I said. "I'm surprisingly happy to see you."

"You mean that having me here is a happy surprise for you," she said.

"Do I?" I said. "Oh never mind that. Sit. I have something I'd like to run up your flag pole."

"Is that something like a lead balloon?" she asked, "Because if it is, I don't know what to do with it."

"Lupe, you're looking at a man who's living in the Twilight Zone." 

"I'll bet it's nothing more than quantum fluctuations," she said.

"Can I get you something?" asked a nearby voice. "A double cappuccino, please," said the godniece, with the casual confidence of someone who's been drinking coffee since kindergarten. 

"Sir?" asked the barista. 

"Oh, yes," I said, still processing how a 15-year-old ordered coffee with more authority than I've ever had. "A flat white please."

"You were saying?" said Lupe.

"Lupe, the most unusual things have been happening," I said. "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I don't know where to begin," she said.

"Then don't," I said. "Let me give you just a few examples."

"No need," she said. "I understand well enough that you've experienced almost simultaneous occurrences of events that seem significantly related but have no discernable causal relationship."

I must have taken on an expression of lost in translation because without waiting for a reply she said, "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"Exactly!" I said.

"Well, you're in luck," she said, "because I watched the latest episode of Hack Your Mind on YouTube last night, and the topic was Quantum Consciousness. I've watched one and a half episodes and by now, I must be an expert compared to most people."

"One double cappuccino and one flat white," said the barista placing the cups on the table.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did I ask for oat milk?."

"No you didn't," she said. "I'll remake it for you."

"Are you saying that I don't actually see what I think I see?"

"According to Dr. Mindbender, hallucinations are often the result of stress. Have you tried relaxation techniques like deep breathing for example?"

"I'm taking deep breaths now," I said. "It seems necessary to get through this conversation."

"Good," she said after sipping her cappuccino, "Take three is my suggestion. And then close your eyes and visualize a peaceful beach. Hear the soothing sounds of the surf and the call of seagulls."

"Ok," I said, closing my eyes, "My eyes are closed, and all I see are sandcastles and flying fish."

"Ah," she said, "not a problem. Dr. Dreamweaver teaches us to remain calm in the face of the bizarre and ask the visions to explain the message they have for us."

I closed my eyes again and asked the sandcastles to explain. I got no satisfaction. 

"I asked but only got a request for coffee," I told her. "Speaking of coffee, where's mine?"

"My goodness, you are demanding this morning, aren't you?"

"I'm not demanding this morning, I have this morning. What I'm demanding is caffeine."

"Chillax, I'll get your coffee," she said as she stood and headed for the Order Here spot.

"Thank you, Lupe. I'm so happy you've decided to rally around."

"I'm always looking out for you, you helpless jamoke," she said when she returned to the table. "You just don't always see it."

"Lupe," I said after the first sip from the cup. "Did you ask for chai in this coffee? If I wanted chai, which I don't, I would have requested it."

"What you need to do," she said, speaking with the same authority she used ordering espresso, "is to embrace the absurdity of life's little quirks and stop making a big deal out of every little thing. Now, drink your coffee. The unusual taste is probably the goat milk."

"Not goat," I said, "--oat. Is everyone your age as sassy as you?" 

"We rage against Babylon, Brah," she said, pulling out her phone to TikTok the moment. "And that pays dividends. But only if you pay attention. Want me to explain that again in emoji?"