Essentially Prepared

We've become a society of pack animals, though I suspect donkeys would file complaints with their union if asked to carry as much as we do. Everywhere I go I see people hauling bags of "essentials" that would make a wilderness survivalist feel unprepared.

Car keys, credit cards, hand lotion, face lotion, tissues to wipe off the lotions (apparently we're concerned about leaving a moisturizing trail), breath mints, medications, and nail clippers; these are only a few of the items we need with us when meeting friends for lunch. 

My imaginary critic—known to regulars as Princess Amy—insists that "these aren't unnecessary items; they're preparation for life's uncertainties." Amy rides shotgun in my brain, my resident Minister of Doom, always ready with unhelpful observations like, "You'll regret not having tweezers when you get a splinter in line at the post office."

Specialized Essentials

The list of essential items grows exponentially depending on personal concerns. The truly prepared among us—and I'm not judging, merely observing—insist on carrying umbrellas, all-in-one tools, a toothbrush, or wordle books in case of an attack of boredom. Heaven forbid we take an elevator without wi-fi and no puzzle book handy.

I have a friend who behaves as though civilization may collapse during her trip to the grocery store. This isn't theoretical; I've witnessed her unpack her bag to find a bandage for a paper cut, producing enough supplies to stock a modest field hospital.

This compulsion to be perpetually prepared creates a secondary problem: The psychological burden of carrying a smartphone that contains all our banking information and pay apps.

And it doesn’t end there. We need something to carry all these things. Hence the proliferation of backpacks, messenger bags, duffels, satchels, and totes. Some purses now rival carry-on luggage in size and capacity. I've seen people nearly topple over from the gravitational pull of their own accessories.

Rather than simplifying, we've literally added weight to our daily existence. The physical burden is evident in hunched shoulders and strained expressions of passersby. We're "essentially" turtles, carrying everything we need with us; but our shells are made of canvas and contain hand sanitizer.

My Downsizing Experience

I attempted to solve this problem for myself by minimizing it—simply tucking my credit card and driver's license into my front pocket and deciding to carry a cross-shoulder bag for my other necessities.

Immediately, I felt unburdened, lighter, and more agile—ready to leap into action should any emergency arise while purchasing stamps or shopping for fiber supplements. Amy remained suspiciously quiet during this experiment, which should have been my first warning.

Practicality quickly took over when I nearly lost the credit card between the pharmacy and the coffee shop. I calculated the probability distribution of where I might have dropped it ultimately decided to simply retrace my steps.

If not for honest strangers—a concept Princess Amy finds statistically improbable—my simplification experiment might have proved costly. 

Recently, I decided to compromise with reality. I calculated through sophisticated algorithms (counting on fingers) that the traditional leather back-pocket wallet must go, replaced by one of those thin, streamlined wallets with just enough compartments to hold actual necessities.

It's a bright idea—but finding one thin enough is more complicated than I imagined. Apparently, the age of thin and streamlined is over. Plus-sized is in vogue today.

Need I say that this wallet-hunting expedition has become its own circular journey? I keep looking for the solution but, so far, nada. I'm still contemplating my next move. Do I give up? Do I design my own minimal wallet? Does the determined minimalist ever give up? Of course not.

I haven't completely given up on finding the perfect item. Something a little larger than a credit card, driver's license, and medical insurance card. If you have any suggestions please leave them in the comments. Until then, I'll wear shirts with button-down pockets and keep my goods there.

The Accidental Chronicler

How We Stumbled into Wilmington's Spotlight 

Against my better judgment, I became an entertainment writer. But the path to this questionable distinction wasn't mapped out with Hollywood stars on the sidewalk.

Until a few years ago, Ms. Wonder and I were happy to contribute stories and photographs to travel magazines. We strived to make a name for ourselves in the best magazines, which meant something in the world of journalism until the mid-2000s. In those days people actually flipped physical pages instead of swiping screens.

We believed the job was important—a sort of public service— introducing readers to people and places they may not have known about and perhaps had no way to visit. 

Our stories made a small splash in a large pond, and even though the ripples didn't last long, that didn't bother us. By the time an article appeared in print, we were already caught up in something new, eagerly chasing the next feature with the enthusiasm of Island Irv pursuing happy hour specials.

Our work was most often featured in regional magazines like Mid-Atlantic Travel, Our State, Country Magazine, South Carolina Magazine, Pee Dee, and EZ Street Magazine. We also appeared in many newspapers across the south from the Raleigh News & Observer to the Austin American-Statesman.

It was the best job in the magazine business and it still is. Or was. Past tense becomes necessary when discussing print media these days, doesn't it?

Eventually, the internet began taking advertising revenue from print magazines with the systematic efficiency of a digital grim reaper. The big fish magazines ate the small ones, probably laughing about it in boardrooms and secretly fearing the day they would be eaten.

Generic stories off the wire replaced the tailored freelance ones. When original pieces were published, they were written by NY Times bestselling authors. People didn't buy the current issue for the travel destinations. They bought it for the name of the writer.

In our target region of the Carolinas, it was people like Pat Conroy, Nicholas Sparks, Leigh Ann Henion, and Sue Monk Kidd who sold magazine subscriptions and as a result, advertising copy. On the upside, this historical fact gave me an excellent excuse to explain why our bylines don't appear in Condé Nast Traveler.

Came the day we relocated to Wilmington. Nothing to do with writing, we simply wanted to be near the coast and the vibrant artist community in the city by the sea. What better place to heal my wounded journalistic pride than with the salt air and the occasional overpriced coffee from places like The Circular Journey Cafe?

Wonder quickly discovered that art connoisseurs on the Silver Coast couldn't get enough of her abstract photography, which showcases life along the Cape Fear River. For me, the big news came when MovieMaker magazine named Wilmington the Number 2 city for living and working as a moviemaker. It was like discovering spring flowers after a particularly chilly winter.

And that, dear readers, is how I ended up chasing film schedules around Wilmington instead of exotic destinations around the globe. The pay is worse, the coffee is better, and the stories? Well, let's just say Hollywood East—or "Musicwood" as Jack is desperately trying to rebrand it—never fails to deliver material.

It's not exactly the glamorous transition I had in mind while attending creative writing classes in Winston-Salem. However, my biggest supporters tell me I have an opportunity to boost my writing to the level of three out of five Goldblums on The Jeff Goldblum Scale™ of writing excellence.

As for Ms. Wonder, she's well on her way to the photographic art retrospective in New York that her biographers will refer to as her Blue Period, just as her biggest supporter predicted.

Hit the Right Notes S2 E9

Against my better judgment, I accepted an invitation from Jack to visit the Circular Journey Cafe on the promise that he would provide the actual film schedule for Jonas Pate’s upcoming television series, The Runarounds. But curiosity—and the lure of a decent flat-white—got the better of me.

I arrived to find not just Jack but the entire coffee shop crew: Lupe was intently Googling something that she'd probably use to cause severe shock to some unsuspecting bystander. Island Irv was wearing dark sunglasses indoors, which was strangely disturbing. Claudia was examining the coffee menu with the intensity of someone decoding the Rosetta Stone. Knowing her, she was probably near comatose with boredom.

"There he is!" Jack announced with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Wilmington's premier entertainment blogger—the man, the myth, the legend!”

I raised an eyebrow. Wouldn't you? I gave him my patented scoffer's look, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"Someone's in a mood," Claudia observed, stirring her coffee with surgical precision.

"I'm not in a mood," I countered, sliding into a chair. "I'm simply wary of Jack's overwrought enthusiasm. It typically leads to a request for a favor..." I paused for theatrical effect, raised an accusing eyebrow, "or sharing dubious information from Barbary Coast Bar.”

"No Jamaican rum involved this time," Jack assured me, raising his hands defensively. "This is legitimate intel about 'The Runarounds.’"

That caught my attention. "Jonas Pate's new Amazon series? The one about the Wilmington high school band who decided to make a run for musical stardom rather than attend college?”

"Not just any high school band," Lupe chimed in, looking up from her laptop, "A band that Jonas auditioned for 'Outer Banks' and then decided to build a whole television series around.”

"Lupe," I said a bit too defensively. "I may have missed filming at Flaming Amy's, and I botched the 'Driver's Ed' schedule pretty badly, but I do read the trades.”

"And by 'the trades,' he means the Wilmawood Gazette entertainment section," Jack stage-whispered to Irv, who chuckled in response.

I ignored them both. "They've been filming all over town, from the South Front District to Reggie's 42nd Street Tavern, to Greenfield Lake Amphitheater. I've been meaning to check it out but was trying to squeeze in Driver's Ed.”

"Meaning to check it out?" Lupe repeated, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs. "It's the biggest thing to hit Wilmington's music scene since... well, ever! This show could put our local bands on the national radar.”

"That's exactly what I was going to write about in my next blog post," I lied, reaching for my phone to make notes. "The transformative potential of 'The Runarounds' on Wilmington's music ecosystem.”

Jack snorted. "You were going to write about how you couldn't find the set again. You don't have the schedule--yet. But that's all in the past, Bucko, I have the filming schedule for next week right here.” He placed his hand over his jacket pocket.

That perked me up considerably. "The real schedule? Not the fake one they post online to throw off rabid fans?”

"The genuine article," Jack confirmed as he took a folded paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. "We agreed to work together to track down the secrets behind their production plans, and I followed through. Not sure what you were doing but here it is. They're filming at The Rusty Nail on Wednesday. The scene features the band getting their first gig.”

"I've been suffering from pollen allergies," I said to explain why I hadn't been in touch. While that was true, the real reason I hadn't texted him was that I expected him to dredge more of the rum-fueled nonsense from Barbary Coast.

I wasn’t entirely convinced that what Jack presented was the real goods. I wavered as I reviewed the schedule, but I needed a win like this to restore my reputation as an entertainment journalist. I remembered my father saying: Take the risk only when the potential reward outweighs the potential loss. With that in mind, I decided to act on Jack's info.

Even if it turned out to be bogus, it was a small price to pay for the possibility of being on the inside track of the latest and hottest film project in town.

Jack must have read my mind, “It didn't come from Barbary Coast," he said. "This is the goods."

"How did you get it?” I ask scanning the single page of notes.

"Let's just say I know someone who knows someone who delivers coffee to the production office," Jack replied with a mysterious air that did nothing to inspire more confidence.

"And you're just... giving this to me?" I asked, suspicious. "What's the catch?”

"No catch," he said. "Didn't we agree to dig up the hidden plans of the production company? Well, I've been out doing just that. And why are you so suspicious? You've got The Circular Journey's reviews into the yellow zone lately, right?”

I narrowed my eyes and looked around the table to see how the others reacted to this news. "Who told you about my traffic metrics?”

"You did," Claudia interjected. "Last week, right here in this cafe, after your third espresso.”

"Right," I mumbled, vaguely recalling a caffeine-fueled rant about SEO strategies.

"Look," Island Irv said, finally joining the conversation, "you've got two options. You can sit here questioning Jack's motives, or you can use that schedule to get a decent scoop on The Runarounds. If you're lucky, you might write something that hits three Goldblums on your weird rating scale.”

"The Jeff Goldblum Scale™ is not weird. It's an elegant system for measuring journalistic excellence.”

"Whatever," Irv waved dismissively. "The point is, this show could be huge for Wilmington. Not just Hollywood East anymore—Musicwood, too.”

"Musicwood?" I repeated. "That's a terrible moniker. Please don't repeat it, we don't want that to catch on.”

"Too late," Jack grinned. "Already mentioned it to Harvey at the Gazette.”

Wouldn’t you know it? Just when you think you’ve struck gold, you learn that someone else has already staked their claim. It’s just as Shakespeare said, “When you believe everything is finally going your way, Fate is lurking in the shadows, ready to throw a punch.

The Day the Wi-Fi Vanished

Ms. Wonder was at her desk, artfully arranging pixels into promotional materials for her fine art photography exhibition. I was at my keyboard, wrestling with metaphors and trying to coax a new blog post into existence.

And then, without so much as a farewell flicker, the internet vanished.

One moment, I was riding the information superhighway at full throttle, much like I ride Ocean Highway with Wynd Horse and Quinn; the next, I was stranded on the digital equivalent of a deserted country road with nothing but crickets for company.

The Apocalypse, According to Amy

"This is it," Amy announced, materialising inside my head with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain. "The technological apocalypse we've been warned about. First the internet, then the power grid, then civilization itself."

"It's probably just a temporary outage," I offered.

"Temporary?" Amy's eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars. "That's exactly what They want you to think. This has government interference written all over it. Or aliens. Probably aliens conducting government interference."

I sighed with the resignation of a man whose imagination has its own zip code. "Amy, please. I need to think."

"Think?" She snorted. "While the extraterrestrial intelligence agency is downloading your browser history? Good luck with that."

The Tech Support Odyssey

Ms. Wonder appeared in the doorway, her expression a perfect blend of concern and annoyance—an expression she wears when she thinks I'm about to complicate a simple problem.

"Internet's down," she announced. 

I've noticed," I replied, performing the checklist that's become a modern ritual: Check the router. Unplug the router. Count to ten. Plug in the router. Watch the little lights. Repeat.

"Any luck?" Wonder asked, leaning against the doorframe with the patience of a saint monitoring a particularly slow miracle.

"The lights are on, but nobody's home," I muttered, staring at the router as if it might respond to intimidation.

The Zwiggy Conspiracy

Having given up on the checklist, I stood by the French doors watching the birds at our new feeders. Zwiggy the squirrel sat perched on the fence, looking suspiciously smug for a Tuesday morning.

"I've got it!" I declared, with the certainty of a detective in the final episode. "Zwiggy did it."

Wonder joined me at the window, skepticism radiating from her like heat from the mug of coffee she held in her hands."The squirrel ate through our internet cable?" she said.

"Look at them," I insisted, gesturing at the backyard parliament. "This is a calculated move designed to increase their evening rations. 

"Or," Wonder countered, with the calm rationality that suits the wonder that she is, "they see us standing by the door and think we're coming out to feed them. Because that's what we do every day at this time."

"Of course, I knew the squirrel had nothing to do with our Wi-Fi outage. But it felt good to declare, "I've solved the mystery!" after the past week of just one damned thing after another.

The Crisis Management Committee

"We need to address this systematically," I announced, pacing the living room like Sun Tzo plotting business strategy. "First, we need alternative connectivity. Port City Java has dependable Wi-Fi."

"You can set up a temporary command center there," said the Wonder, smiling as if she were beginning to enjoy my production.

"Command center?" Amy interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's a coffee shop, not the Pentagon."

"Shut up," I said.

"Was only trying to offer moral support," said the Wonder.

"Oh, no, not you," I said. "I was telling Amy to shut up."

"Does that ever work?"

"No, but..." I paused hoping to find something sensible to say. "We should probably report the outage," I said.

Wonder looked up from her phone. "Already did," she said. "I reported it to Duke Power earlier, while you were accusing the wildlife of cyber terrorism."

"Excellent," I nodded, focusing on the solution rather than the subtle jab. "Now, I know you're worried about Zwiggy having chewed through some cables—"

"I'm really not," Wonder interjected.

The Grocery Store Sanctuary

Twenty minutes later, Amy's theories had evolved to include Russian hackers and vengeful AI.

"Why don't you go to the grocery store?” Wonder suggested, “They have Wi-Fi, and it's closer than Port City."

"The grocery store," I repeated. "Of course. Peace, quiet, connectivity, and snacks."

"And maybe pick up some bread while you're there," she added, proving once again that multitasking is her superpower.

I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, pausing only to cast a suspicious glance at Zwiggy, who seemed to be smirking from her perch on the fence.

"I'm watching you," I mouthed through the window. The squirrel flicked her tail, scoffing at me.

The Digital Nomad

Wynd Horse, my faithful automotive companion, hummed to life and we began cruising through a quiet, suburban landscape where spring gardens were in full bloom. 

"Maybe disconnection isn't entirely catastrophic," I mused aloud.

"Now you're just rationalizing," Amy replied. I imagined her in the passenger seat, her arms crossed in disagreement.

"I'm being philosophical," I countered. "There's a difference."

"There's really not," she sniffed.

The Digital Reunion

A triple caffeine later, my phone chimed with a text from Wonder: "Power company found the issue. Working on repairs. ETA 2 hours."

I texted back: "Any mention of squirrel involvement?"

Her reply was swift and unamused: "No. But we're out of bread."

By late afternoon, our digital lifelines were restored and I was scattering seeds and nuts for our backyard companions. Zwiggy approached cautiously, accepted a peanut with surprising gentility, and retreated to a safe distance.

"Truce?" I offered.

She paused, peanut clutched in tiny paws, and appeared to consider my proposal. Then, with what I swear was a nod of agreement, she scampered over the fence and disappeared into the gathering dusk.

"You realize you're imposing a personality on a rodent with a brain the size of a grape," Amy commented dryly.

"And you realize you're imaginary and yet you provide a running commentary on every move I make. We all have our quirks."

In a world where disconnection can feel like isolation, there was something unexpectedly refreshing about the forced pause—a reminder that in the moments we disconnect from technology, we get in touch with ourselves.

Works For Me

Along the canals, Mimi the Mockingbird serenaded dogs and their walkers with popular tunes from the '40s and '50s. Palmetto palms swayed to the rhythm of her songs. Azaleas primped in the early morning sunlight to be ready for next week's festival celebrating their beauty. The ducks in the lagoons, well honestly, the ducks were simply goofing off, shamelessly duck-like.

A recent rain had left the air smelling of the sweet perfume of early summer, and the fence around our little Eden served as a backdrop for the soothing coos of mourning doves. It was that gentle hour, loved by all, nestled between dawn and mid-morning. A refreshing pause to allow Nature to get her second shot of caffeine before the big push into the afternoon.

Wyatt, the poodle-ish dog next door was alternately running out into the backyard where he would turn to the house and begin barking as though calling someone to come out and play. With that done, he would run back into the house where he was silent for several seconds, no doubt getting his ears scratched running back outside to do it all over again. It usually works for him. Doesn't work as well for me when I want to get Ms. Wonder's attention.

Wyatt repeated the sequence several times before Princess Amy noticed him. "There's a household that might benefit from living with cats," she said as if cats weren't just little feudal lords using the art of strategic indifference to get what they want. 

"Amy, don't you like dogs?" I asked and I instantly regretted joining her in conversation so early in the day.

"Dogs, I like," she said. "I have two of my own. It's people who own dogs that I have a problem with."

"You don't have dogs," I said emphatically although I realized I should have stayed quiet. I have trouble stopping once I start.

"Chihuahuas," she said. "Butch and Killer."

"Fitting," I said imagining Amy strolling through the park with two pint-sized swaggers.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Figure it out," I said because I wasn't up for any smash-mouth from her on such a beautiful morning. I'd had enough and I wasn't going to take it anymore. (I say that often and I don't know if it makes a difference but I know that it makes me feel better when I say it.) It's a personal mantra--less 'OM' and more 'Oh, come on.'

Inspired by Wyatt's persistence, I pulled out my phone and opened the SiriusXM app to play easy-listening hits from the 1980s. It's my version of Wyatt's routine--my way to bring someone out to play with me or more often to get Princess Amy into a playful mood. It's the next best thing to living with cats.

When I hear music it changes my mood. Don't ask me why. I can't explain it and I no longer look for answers to life's mysteries. I've become like the Tin Man--not equipped to find answers, just searching for a heart to feel the music instead of analyzing it. It works for me, and that's all I need.

Michael Jackson's singing Human Nature fills my heart with that same peaceful feeling I find in our backyard Eden. It's like magic.  As Shakespeare said, "Don't ask why; just do it and let it be." Not a direct quote, but in my defense, the Bard never had to deal with two chihuahuas that collect insurance money from local canines.