Life Is A Highway

We don’t know where we're goin’ but we sure know where we’ve been. We're hanging onto the promises in songs of yesterday. We've made up our mind. We ain't wasting no more time. Here we go again. *1

Sometimes I'm not comfortable in my own skin. I feel the need to get away, to be somewhere else. I don't know where. It doesn't really matter as long as it's somewhere I'm not. But then that's the problem, isn't it? No matter where I go, there I am. 

Riding along in my automobile, Ms. Wonder next to me at the wheel, cruisin' and playin' the radio, with no particular place to go. *2

As long as I'm moving down the road, it's enough. Well, nearly enough. It's best when I have the windows down and the radio turned up to eleven. Oh, and the sunshine doesn't necessarily need to shine but, if it is shining, then it's just better that's all. It's anxiety that spurs me to drive away--away from wherever I am--and that anxiety is filled with dark storm clouds, so having a bright sky overhead helps.

As the man said, let the golden age begin. I put my hands on the wheel, let the window down and with the ocean breeze on my skin, the weight of the world drifts away.  *3

I spend a lot of time driving around in my car. It's not the safest thing I could do. I don't have to tell you that. Driving a car is risky in any event and sometimes here in ugly-angry-macho-land, the risk escalates because so many daredevils are on the road. Is it ugly-angry-macho-land everywhere now? 

That's why I have to get away. I'm goin' up the country to someplace I've never been before. I try to leave all the fussin' and fightin' behind me. Of course, the fussin' and fightin' is inside my head. *4

It doesn't really matter where we go--Ms. Wonder and I. It only matters that we move forward. There's something about the feeling of moving toward the horizon that is promising, liberating, and encouraging. It just makes me feel better--less anxious.

The sound of my wheels on the road slapping out a tempo, keeping perfect rhythm with the song on the radio puts me in the zone. And so I just keep moving down the highway. Driving my life away, looking for a sunny day, and a better way for me. *5

Driving to the music can sometimes transform my mood completely. I always get caught up in the lyrics and begin to sing along. My mood sometimes climbs so high, that I feel like I am the front-guy, or front-gal. I don't just sing along with Elton, I become Elton.

When it all comes together, I'm so laid back, hypnotized by the funky sounds coming out of my radio, pedestrians see me bobbin my head as I check out the rapper and the rhyme that he said. *6

Some people just don't get it. They think I'm foolish for all the foolish things I do. But what does it mean to be foolish? After all, they say Eve tempted Adam with an apple, but man I ain't going for that! *7

Some people suggest meditation, or exercise, or therapy. One person suggested that I go to more meetings. They may all be right and I'll try. Really I will. Until then, I'm on the road again. 

We're the best of friends, me, Ms. Wonder, Wynd Horse, and Quinn. Going places we've never been and seeing things we may never see again. And I just can't wait to get on the road again. *8

I don't worry myself over the whole rigamarole. I may be on a road to nowhere but I don't care. When I'm on that road, I'm feeling okay and that, for me, is a road to paradise. *9

Hey, barista, pour me another cup of coffee. Pop it down, jack me up, shoot me out, flyin' down the highway. *5

Here we go again. Going down the only road we’ve ever known. We've made up our minds. Ain't wasting no more time. Here we go again. *1

Wonder and I have so many places to go and so much to see. It's a wide, wild, wonderful world we're driving through, Billy Bob. And although we may be on a road to nowhere, it's the road to paradise for us. And here we go again, now, always and forever. 

We'll drive til we drop and, baby..., we ain't never looking back. *10

Thank you to every songwriter and musical artist for your passion and dedication to making music and song. I sometimes feel that I would not be here today if not for you. The lyrics in this blog post are just a few of the many that sustain me daily. The songs and artists are noted below. The lyrics used in the post are not exact quotes.

*1 Here I Go Again, Whitesnake

*2 No Particular Place to Go, Chuck Berry

*3 The Golden Age, Beck

*4 Going Up The Country, Canned Heat

*5 Driving My Life Away, Eddie Rabbit

*6 The Boomin System, L L Cool J

*7 Pink Cadilac, Natalie Cole

*8 On The Road Again, Willie Nelson

*9 Road to Nowhere, Talking Heads

*10 Born To Run, Bruce Springsteen

The Card Game

I was troubled yesterday by the thought that my blog posts aren't as uplifting as they once were and far less inspirational than I remembered.

I apologize for that. I appreciate your attention and support more than you can possibly realize and I do my best to bring goodness and light into my life by first bringing it into yours.

My troubling thoughts spilled into troubling dreams. You see, I often dream about the obstacles and absurdities that I encounter in life, and many times the dreams bring some new understanding or some helpful enlightenment. 

I call those dream revelations, Hello Kittens. I'll explain why later, perhaps in another post. But for now, let's just go with it. This morning's dream woke me at 4:45.

Hello, Kitten, said that familiar voice in my head.

I walked into Egret Cafe, in the dream. It was Sunday morning and, just like most Sunday mornings, I was to meet Island Irv there for our weekly recap of the social and economic goings-on of the Port City.

Sunday mornings are usually slow in the coffee shops of the Castle Street Arts District. Most patrons want to sit quietly and let caffeine flush the cobwebs from their minds and restore them to something resembling human. But it's never boring. 

Walking through the gathering of the Twee who filled the seating area, I nodded to three regulars, all women of a certain age. They were playing a game of cards. 

"What a nice shirt," said one of the relics. Let's call her Barbie Espresso, which is the drink she always orders.

"Thank you," I said. "I like it too; my favorite shirt."

"You always wear the nicest shirts," she said. "Why don't you join us. We need a fourth hand.'

You will understand, I'm sure, that all I really wanted was to meet up with the Islander and enjoy our usual deconstruction of the week's news. But what could I say after the nice compliment? I sat and picked up the cards in front of me. Oat Latte leaned over and looked at the cards in my hand.

"Oooh!" she said and then looking at her hand for comparison, she said, "Let's be partners." 

"You'll need to ante up to get in the game, Hon," said Barbie.

"I'll need a new set of cards," I said. "Oat Latte has seen my hand."

"It doesn't matter," said Medicine Ball, the third member, "we don't know how to play anyway."

"The ante is fitty cent," said Oat, pronouncing it like the name of the rapper. "But it has to be an actual half-dollar coin."

The last remark got a laugh around the table but I didn't join in. I was feeling more and more like I'd made a mistake by accepting their invitation.

"Yeah," said Barbie, "and we'd prefer a Flowing Hair Liberty dated 1794 or 1795."

The laugh was much bigger this time. I felt the need to respond and I worked up something like a laugh but it had no real pep. 

"Well, I never see half dollars anymore," I said, "and I'm certain I don't have one of those in my pocket."

"Honey," said Oat, placing her hand on my shoulder, "if we thought you had one of those in your pocket, we'd be your new best friends."

Once more there was laughter all around and this time I felt compelled to join in. It was painful.

"Don't worry about the ante," said Oat Latte. "I think we can accept a little sweat equity in place of hard cash, right girls?"

"Equity?" I said. "How does that work?"

"Here it comes," said Medicine Ball. "Are you ready?"

I looked around the table as Princess Amy began to stir in my head. Amy was saying, "Uh-oh, this isn't good."

Medicine leaned forward across the table. The cafe had become silent as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. She looked hard into my eyes and said, "I wouldn't put that shirt on the bottom of my cockatoo's cage."

Laughter exploded from the three women like a Biblical pestilence. The effect was felt around the room. Dogs barked. Babies cried. A loud pop sounded behind the counter and the cafe was filled with the aroma of burned coffee grounds.

"Cheer up, dear," said Oat picking up the undealt deck of cards. "That was your sweat equity. How many cards do you want?"

"Good morning," said Island Irv coming on the scene. "Good to see you, Genome. He seemed to ignore the three women when he said, "Let's order coffee."

Suddenly, I realized why he didn't acknowledge the women. They had disappeared. It was all a dream and I woke.

"Hello, Kitten," said the familiar voice in my head.

I'm told that dreams such as these are sent to teach and guide us. To help us become our best selves and help to reach our destiny. If that's true, then I say again, Who the hell is Kitten?

Another Motion Picture Masterpiece

Many thanks to everyone who left comments about my visit to Southport and the set of The Waterfront, the new Netflix television series. It's good to know that so many of you share my love of behind-the-scenes cinemagic.

I was back on the same set of The Waterfront this morning but much to my dismay, no one was there. What! Even though my sources, who are never wrong btw, my sources say filming will take place today--but nada. I don't know what to tell you. I promise to get updates soon and post them here on The Circular Journey.

But all is not lost. I strive never to let my public down. You are much too important to me. My sources made me aware that another film project is underway in Southport. You may have heard the name, Capsized?

And so, with my brain working like a finely tuned large language model artificial intelligence chatbot, I left the familiar Southport yacht basin and headed down the barricaded Brunswick Street to Morningstar Marina, the set for Capsized.

The last time I was on the set of The Waterfront, I asked Vee about the signs declaring the place a restricted area. She's the production assistant who taught me about hanging around a film crew, and she told me, "That's just to scare away civilians."

And so this morning as I walked down the barricaded Brunswick Street toward the Morningstar, the thought that I wasn't just another random civilian allowed me to become a little full of myself. And it felt good. 

Closer to the actual marina, I could see what appeared to be the entire crew assembled on the deck overlooking the bay. I recognized it as the party that kicks off the first day of filming on any set. It was exciting. I was pumped!

Consequently, when I arrived I walked onto the set like I was walking aboard my yacht. My beret was strategically dipped above one eye, which made all the difference in presentation.

I suppose this is the place where I might write, What could possibly go wrong? Or I might tease you with, Hilarity ensues.

I might have written something like that but the words would have misrepresented the heavy-hearted feeling that filled me when a security guard blocked my way and asked me,

"Didn't you see the signs that say, closed set; authorized personnel only?"

Well, what could I say? What was there to say except maybe, "Oh, ah," and that's what I said.

All the magic happens behind the curtain.

You know that I'm addicted to the magic of film production, and the thought of being turned away, like Adam and Eve from the Garden, reminded me that at times like these, what's called for is a higher power. I pulled my magic 8-ball out of my pack and consulted it about my prospects for success. 

I turned the ball over, and the answer floated up out of the darkness. Time will tell, it read. I was more disappointed if that's even possible. It's this kind of nonsense, I thought, that makes people seriously doubt the reliability of magic balls and whatnot.

But the mood soon passed because the atmosphere on set was festive and the excitement was contagious. I hung around the general area trying to put together an alternate plan for salvaging something from the day.

As I walked around the dock, kicking sticks and leaves into the water, I was approached by someone coming from the direction of the kick-off party.

"Hi," he said. "You're not part of the production team are you?"

"How does everyone know that?" I asked. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah," he said, "it's easy to tell you're a civilian. Would you like to help me with my lines?"

I didn't like that crack about being a civilian and I thought of several juicy comebacks but decided it was best if I wanted to hang around a while longer, to be helpful in any way I could. 

"I suppose so," I said.

And so he told me all about his part in the upcoming scene. He was an extra and would play an employee of the rental agency. He would be casting off the mooring lines to allow the houseboat to leave the dock. 

Beau, that's his name, told me the storyline includes a dysfunctional family that rents a houseboat for a vacation on the Carolina coast. That's the first scene to be filmed today. 

He didn't tell me the entire story but when I hear the words, dysfunctional family, I suspect the father has a problem with platinum blondes and bathtub gin. It's a common problem I believe. In my younger days in Shady Grove, I heard it referred to as a problem with "dames and hootch."

In the upcoming scene, the family would be preparing to launch their vacation by launching the houseboat. What could go wrong? Hilarity ensues.

Beau and two other extras would provide a believable facsimile of a boat rental crew. He had only two lines to rehearse. He was to tell the other workers to "Cast off the lines," and when the ropes had been untied and stowed, he would say, "Good job, boys."

Not exactly Hamlet but you wouldn't have guessed it from the way he went on about it. I'll bet I heard his lines at least a dozen times before the Second Assistant Director sent for him to join the other extras in the staging area. He forgot to thank me but who could complain, he was really pumped! 

"Knock 'em dead," I said as he walked toward the boats.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said.

"Well, you've got me there. It's something I've heard said in similar situations and I thought it would be a great exit line for you."

He shook his head and gave me a look that implied I was a total waste, taking up space that could be used for better purposes. But I shook it off. I was going to have a great day despite inflated egos and unreliable magic. I took a deep breath and got a lungful of ambient excitement. I was pumped!

I always strive to spread goodness and light to the deserving and undeserving alike. And so, thinking I could improve relations with Beau, I called to him as he walked away. 

"Beau," I said, "you might want to speak up a bit, your voice is a little soft and elocution is what you want on camera."

I don't know how I thought of the elocution gag. It just floated up like a message from a magic 8-ball. Still, I thought it a good bit of fruit cake and congratulated myself for thinking of it.

Listening to Beau during rehearsal, I'd gotten the idea that the action pretty much centered around him untying the boat. He'd given me the impression that the other actors did little more than fill in when he happened to be off-stage. But from what I could tell, watching the action from a distance, things on set jogged along quite nicely without much help from him.

"That's it boys!" said Beau--not in the script, of course--and his loud remark walked all over whatever it was the stars were saying to each other as they boarded the houseboat.

"Cut!" yelled the director.

Immediately, an outburst of dialogue erupted between the stage manager and the director. I couldn't make it all out but it had something to do with Beau being off his mark. The stage manager placed his hands on Beau's shoulders and moved him around a bit.

Again, the action began. I was too far away to hear the calls to "Rolling" and "Action."

The previous scene was repeated and everything seemed to be alright until another stormy exchange between the stage manager and director. This time it was about Beau's lines. It seems his volume control was set too high, as I suspected. 

"Cut!" yelled the director and several crew members repeated the call.

Not exactly Hamlet.

 Normal activity resumed and I could see Beau and the other two extras gabbing on the dock. The director walked out to give Beau some direction and Beau seemed to take it big. He was pumped but not in a good way!

He seemed to think he was judged unfairly and took out his frustration on a crab crate which he kicked off the dock and into the water. It was plain the atmosphere had hotted up and there was a goodish deal of je-ne-sais-quoi on the set.

The directory apparently decided it would be helpful to give the production crew a short break. Beau came over to my table. He looked steamed. Not actually leaking at the seams but not far from it.

"What'd the director say?" I asked.

"Never mind what he said." The whole thing's your fault."

"What's my fault?"

"Me not working out. He told me I'd be paid for a full day but that it would be better if I didn't eat with the crew and best if I leave the set now."

 

"Too bad," I said. "Well, tomorrow's another day."

"Do you think it's funny?" he demanded but then he stomped away without waiting for a reply. I couldn’t help but wonder what his problem was. It wasn’t like he was going to win an Oscar nomination for "Good job, boys."

I began gathering up my things and just as I was about to leave, I heard a voice behind me.

"Hey, you."

I turned to see the first assistant director standing there, her brow furrowed, looking me up and down.

"You've been hanging around here all morning," she said. "Are you an extra?"

I blinked. "Me? No, I'm not an actor."

"Neither was he." She said.

Vee, my personal production assistant, came to mind and I thought, I'm not just another civilian. I passed as an extra in the mind of an assistant director.

Well? Vee said in the movie playing in my mind. Wanna be an extra?

Actually, Vee, I thought, I'm already an Extra with a capital 'E'. I have a team in Waterford who need me more than you guys.

See you tomorrow then?

"Let's see what the 8-ball has to say about it," I said aloud giving the ball a shake.

Count on it, is what the magic ball said. And, everything considered, I'd say it had been a big day for being pumped from start to finish.

Thank You, Jackie!

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, my friend. It's good to see you again. Congratulations are in order, in a small way, because you've made it through another week and here we are together at week's end. 

I suppose, like Ms. Wonder and me, you've either worked hard and everything turned out well, or despite how hard you've worked, everything went to hell.

I hope you enjoyed more of the former and less of the latter. But enough of the pour parlers, let's get on with it.

My dad visited me in a dream last night and that went well. I even told him I love him. I still feel good about that even though I spent the afternoon in a long line waiting to vote. Dad's hometown of Chattanooga didn't figure into the dream but as I replayed it in my mind, it brought back a favorite memory from years ago about that storied city.

My dad took me to Chattanooga most Saturday mornings to teach me about where and how he grew up. We were the poster crew for the "city boy vs. country boy" fable. I never heard Dad complain or directly criticize any of our country-ways but he did always refer to our community as Dogpatch (Google it.)

My Grandpa Robert retired from his job as chief cook on a tugboat in the Tennessee River and he moved the family to the country where he planned to become a gentleman farmer. He was moderately successful at it too.

The move happened while my dad was in the Navy and when he came home, I'll bet he had a hard time adjusting. But he met my mother there in the rural area and he never lived in the city again. But he still loved it and he had plenty of stories to tell me.

I must have been about six or seven when I began accompanying my dad into the city. He would show me around and tell me stories about each street, each shop, the riverfront, and his old neighborhoods. I remember him telling me that Grandpa Robert used to farm on one of the islands in the middle of the river.

What I remember most is that my dad insisted that I become familiar with the location of the Sears department store in mid-town. He stressed that if I was ever separated from him, I should find Sears, sit at the bus stop, and wait for him to come find me.

I should explain that the "bus stop" was a fully enclosed room on the ground floor of Sears, that opened onto the sidewalk and served as a shelter for those waiting for public transit. Very civilized. It had comfortable seating, vending machines, and a news rack. I've never seen a nicer.

My dad also told me that if I waited at the bus stop for a long time, or if I felt uncomfortable for any reason, I should get on the next bus that stopped and tell the driver that I was lost and to please take me to a police station.

One day, while hanging out at the bus stop, perusing a new comic book, and waiting for my dad to finish his shopping, I decided that I was in the mood for a little excitement. I decided to walk a few blocks up and down Market Street, passing in front of Sears on each circuit. Impossible to get lost and a real adventure for a first-grader. 

And so I left Sears and headed downtown. I wonder how many times I paced up and down the street until deciding I'd had enough adventure and so began looking for Sears. Imagine my surprise and confusion when I discovered the building had disappeared!

I think my next move was fairly commendable for such a young kid. I decided to walk uptown until in sight of the river, the limit of my familiar territory to the north; and then walked back down the street until I came to the rail station, which was my southern terminus. No Sears in sight! The impossible had happened. I was lost.

I quickly began walking back and forth hoping that, like Lorna Dune, the building would materialize out of the mist. There was no mist, but I'm sure you get my meaning.

At one point in my wandering, I glanced behind me and saw a policeman who seemed to be watching me with interest. Quickly, I turned away and tried to look as cool as some cucumbers, as P.G. Wodehouse put it.

You see when my dad told me to ask the bus driver to take me to the police, I realized for the first time that to become lost in the big city was a matter for the boys in blue. And like James Gagney, I wanted no part of the fuzz. You see, my mom had always been afraid of authority and I suppose I absorbed that fear from her.

I reasoned that I needed to appear normal like any not-lost, six-year-old, walking the streets with no adult supervision. Otherwise, the rozzer would suspect me of being a perp.

I continued to stroll in a leisurely way and every few minutes I would sneak a glance behind me. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. I was being tailed. I suspected he'd radioed for backup and a stakeout was waiting for me up ahead.

What was I to do now? Trying to avoid suspicion, I was deep in thought, trying to construct a getaway by using bits of old movies I'd seen on television. 

I thought highly of two tactics but was unsure of which method would suit me best--something based on the raw, give-em-hell tact of Edward G. Robinson or the smooth, skillful strategy of Humphrey Bogart.

While debating the best strategy, I slowly became aware of a voice calling my name. The voice seemed somewhat faint as if coming from far away.

I looked ahead of me and saw no one. I looked in the windows of the buildings I passed. I looked up to heaven in case I was being called by the Lord and if it were true, I knew exactly what I should say, "Lord, here am I," just like the young Samuel in the Bible.

But it wasn't the Lord. It was my cousin, Jackie, shouting at me from the other side of the street. 

"Don't move," he shouted. "Stay right where you are. I'm coming to get you."

 If Jackie ever received his hero's commendation for rescuing me, I never heard about it. But he will always be a hero in my heart. I hope I meet him again someday so that I can properly thank him for saving me from the long arm of the law and what I was sure would be a sentence of 30 days without the option.

Don't Bring Me Down

I know your time is important and I don't want to waste it. But it's important to me that I keep you up-to-date on all the happenings in Wilmawood. So let's get to it.

"Don't bring me down, Lupe," I said to the little pinprick when she asked me why I looked like someone suspected by the authorities of stealing a pig.

And don't tell me that she meant well. I know she was only trying to cheer me up with a friendly barb but I wasn't in the mood for it. What I wanted was a soft pat on the head, and a consoling "There, there."

But did I get what I wanted? Did Mick Jagger? I'll tell you what I got. I got jokes and a burst of laughter from Claudia who thought Lupe and I could be understudies for Stiller and Mira.

The morning opened well--as smooth as a Barry White ballad, with the kind of light that you only get in mid-October. The kind that suggests you should be up and at 'em. But just a few minutes earlier, as I crossed the Memorial Bridge into downtown Wilmawood, instead of Barry, it was Marvin Gaye on SiriusXM radio crooning "Ain’t That Peculiar?" 

The song was oddly fitting to the mood generated by the mixed messages coming from Princess Amy as I entered the Egret Coffee Cafe & Dance Bar. Still, I looked forward to 16 ounces of Jah's Mercy and a few precious minutes to myself before the paying customers arrived.

Instead of solitude, I found the girls already there. After ordering the needful and resuming the pour parlers, I decided to give the morning a second chance.  But then Island Irv entered the joint. I can't say I wasn't happy to see him. I was. But his presence was going to require a different style of delivery than the one I'd planned.

"So, you all know that I've recently been obsessed with writing my blog," I said.

"Oh, Lord, what now?" asked Lupe.

"I'm just saying," I said, "that I love my blog and was excited at first when my agent told me a production company was interested in movie rights."

"I didn't know that," said Irv.

"Why are you bringing this up? said Lupe. "What's gone wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I said and while looking for the next words, Claudia spoke.

"That's wonderful!" she said. "Aren't you happy that your blog may become a movie?"

"Yeah," said Irv. "Congratulations."

"Oh, it's not a done deal yet and I'm not sure I actually want to do it, now I think about it," I said.

Mixed exclamations and questions erupted after that statement but it's all too much to try to sort out now. I think the gist will fall out in the next minute or two.

"That's what I wanted to talk about," I said. "You see, I've always thought of The Circular Journey as special."

"What I'm getting at," I said, "is that I recently read about a group of neuroscientists who measured the brain output of subjects while the subjects viewed the Vermeer painting..."

"Girl With The Pearl Earring," shouted Claudia as though she was a contestant on Lucky 13.

"Oh, no, here we go again," said Lupe rolling her eyes from earth to heaven. "I don't know how you manage to make these quantum leaps from one topic to another. That bridge doesn't exist."

"Don't I know it," said Irv.

"Yes, thank you, Claudia," I said. "What they found is that the viewer's attention was held captive for a few seconds by something they call "Sustained Attentional Loop."

"What are you talking about?" said Irv. Then he looked at the two girls as though he thought they'd provide the back story. Claudia only shrugged. Lupe spoke.

"Let me see if I can guess," said Lupe. "First, we know he's talking about his blog. That blog has been a recurring theme for the last two weeks. And, unless I miss my guess, he's found a way to turn a good thing into a crisis." 

"And why shouldn't I be talking about my blog to my best friends, if I can call you that?" I said. "This whole movie business is very attractive but I love The Circular Journey and I don't want to lose control over any of it. I'd much rather publish it in book form than adapt it to the big screen."

"Calm down," said the Islander. "Start once more from the beginning and I'll attempt to be your best friend, if you can call me that."

"Me too," said Claudia.

"Ok then. That's better," I said. "So the researchers found that when looking at the Girl, the viewer's eye is drawn to her own eye, then down to her mouth, across the face to the pearl earring and then back to her eye."

"And?" said Lupe. 

"One of the neuroscientists who carried out the study explained that when someone views the painting, their attention is captured and he or she must love the painting whether they want to or not."

"I seriously doubt that," said Lupe. "But I'm guessing you think the people who read your blog must love it whether they want to or not."

"Exactly," I said. "I knew you'd understand if anyone would."

"I understand too," said Claudia.

"I don't," said the Islander. "Not in the least."

"The researcher I mentioned, said the research team knew the painting was special. But why it was special came as a surprise."

"And, of course," said Lupe. "you can say the same thing about The Circular Journey. You knew it was special but didn't realize why."

"And now it makes perfect sense to me," I said. "It's simply the Sustained Attentional Loop in action. When people read my blog, they have to keep reading whether they want to or not."

"But why do you think that?" said Claudia.

"It's like this," I said. "My blog has a wide readership with hundreds of thousands of readers who come to the site from more than 50 countries."

"Now 100,000 divided by 50 is 2000," I said. "That number divided by 30.417, which is the average number of days in a month, will give you 65.753. No wait. That's not what I meant. It's 2000 divided by, give me a second. My math is a little rusty."

"Forget the math," said Irv. "Give us the unvarnished English."

"Ok," I said. "I will but we'll come back to the math because it will be useful later."

And so, with much excitement and volume, I explained everything that I've already told you, dear reader, in that blog post titled, Let's Get On With It."

"I get it now," said the Islander.

"Don't take the movie deal," said Claudia.

"What would we do for fun around here," said Lupe, "if you ran away to Hollywood?"

"We don't need Hollywood, do we?" I said. "We will always have Wilmawood."

"What was all the math about?" asked Irv. But I don't want to burden you, one of my most loyal readers with all that. I appreciate you too much to bore you. 

Fierce Qigong, and all that! I'll bet you haven't heard that in a long while.