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?