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Irrational Exuberance

You may remember, if you've been here before, that I'm teaching myself videography. I create videos to promote the districts that make up the city of Wilmington. You won't be surprised to learn that my videos feature many coffee cafes. 


The newest caffeine den to open in the city is the Egret Cafe and it's located in the Soda Pop District. It's quite unique, at least to my knowledge it's unique, in that on weekends there is a disc jockey playing vinyl albums provided by Vintage Vinyl located in Castle Street Arts District.

I love the idea of a coffee shop dance club and I love the collaboration of two businesses from different districts. It's something that I'd like to see more of in my world. And so I want to promote them in my online travel magazine, Carolina Roads.

I arrived just before nightfall because I wanted to experience the changing atmosphere in the cafe as the scene transitioned from coffee shop to dance club. I was looking for a fast and sure pick-me-up before darkness enveloped the Carolina Coast and by association, Princess Amy, who does not like nighttime, not even a little.

I stopped just inside the door to absorb the energy and what to wondering eyes should appear but my god-niece Lupe, seated at a table in the center of the room.

She was wearing her night uniform, the on-duty upholstery of s Mistress of the Night for the Greater Soda Pop District. I seldom see her in this official role because I'm usually in bed at this hour.

"What are you doing here, Genome?" she said to me as she pushed a vacant chair out to meet me. I sat.

"Making a video and most importantly celebrating life," I said.

"Well, please don't do it here. I'm enjoying the coming of the evening and the spirit of darkness."

"Lupe! Not only is it springtime, the season of something Wodehousian. But I have escaped the surly bonds of the past and I now soar above the clouds, so high it seems I can reach out and touch the face..."

"Careful," she warned.

"...of the Universe."

"Well, good for you, she said, but I don't believe any of it. You're engaging in a pep rally to make yourself feel better. All the irrational exuberance annoys me and the profane joy weakens my power."

I shrugged but only slightly. I wasn't immediately sure that I was ready to acknowledge the truth of her words. But once I did, I felt better about it. 

"Life sucks," I said.

"Just one damn thing after another," she said.

Silence filled the space between us for several moments. It wasn't uncomfortable for me; I was numb from depression. But it must have been different for her because she began setting boundaries.

"Listen to me, douche-nozzle, you and I both know that life is a disappointment. We're lied to and peer-pressured to keep everyone content with the low-level something that is daily life.

That's why I look for something in quantum physics and mathematics to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. You, I would think, would be absorbed in being Death's assistant."

"Not really Death's assistant, Lupe. I've explained before that I, and others like me, simply facilitate the soul's ascension by getting it from one person to the next in line."

"Archer, just accept the compliment, please. Don't water it down."

"Then don't call me Archer. I am not Charlie Archer."

"Ok, so you're not Death's assistant. No biggie. You do have an evil plan to dominate the world. That's one of the things I like best about you."

"But it's not really evil," I said. "It's just a plan to finally get to a place of contentment before I'm too old to enjoy life." 

"Again, Asher! Accept the compliment. And what a massive downer, by the way. Look, I behave on your terms, more or less, in the mornings when we meet at Native Grounds because Castle Street Arts District is your neighborhood. If you can't accept my terms here in the Soda Pop District, then you'll just have to leave."

I thought about her words for a moment and then I rose from my chair. 

"Lupe," I said. "I like having you on my team. There's no one I'd rather have my back."

And I meant what I said to her. She's the best and the world can't have too many of her.

She nodded and then, "I suppose you'll do in a pinch too, you big jamoke. Now get out of here before Claudia shows up and gets even more confused about what makes us tock."

Some days, we have little choice but to accept what life brings to us and get on with it. I don't like it. But fighting it only makes it worse.




Make It So!

Wind Horse rocketed across the Holmes Bridge and straight into the mouth of downtown if mouth is the word I'm looking for. And before anyone asks, and I'm sure that someone is thinking about it even now, the bridge referred to is not the Holmes Street Bridge in Shakopee, Minnesota. 

I realize that bridge is a noteworthy one because it's the state's only example of a deck truss bridge. But for God's sake, let's not get sidetracked by another diversion.


The bridge I refer to features a 250-foot double-leaf bascule structure over the Cape Fear River and empties into 3rd Street leading to downtown Wilmington, NC. So please no more questions.

As I was saying, Wind Horse charged straight into the road leading to downtown and I was reminded of a poem we memorized and recited back in Shady Grove Elementary School. You may remember the poem unless you came along after poetry was banned from public education.

The poem is called, The Charge of The Light Brigade, and begins with "Half a league, de dum, de dum, de dum, and then delivers the punchline...

"someone had blundered"

That summed up my feelings perfectly. Someone had blundered and it wasn't me. I had done everything humanly possible to sort out a life worth waking up for but the higher power, if any, had slept in, apparently.

If you're a regular visitor to the blog, you won't be surprised when I say that because of the emotional turmoil in my head, I soon found myself parked in front of Native Grounds, my favorite downtown caffeine den, and looking forward to meeting up with my favorite members of Team Genome, that being my god-niece, Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, and her BFF, Claudia Solviegh Bensen. 

Stage direction: Genome enters Native Grounds. 

"Genome!" said the pair. "What's going on? What's the emergency?"

Sit down and tell us everything, said Lupe. "You look like someone who drank from the cup of life and found a worm at the bottom."

"What's the matter?" I said. "You want to know what's the matter? I'll tell you. I've had it! I'm tired of reading about all the other bipolar bozos who've become rich and famous and yet, where's mine? That's the question I ask the Universe."

I paused long enough to order a double cappuccino with oat milk and a sprinkle of nutmeg. I know! Nutmeg! Don't get hung up over it; I sometimes like to stir things up a bit.

"I too suffer the slings and arrows of mental illness," I continued, "with none of the up-side. I've paid my dues, and all I get is treasons, stratagems, and spoiled."

"I understand exactly what you mean, dear old ancestor," said Lupe, "even though you've bungled another quote. I might suggest that you would feel better if you got a haircut. You look a little like a chrysanthemum."

"And I know you're only trying to help me feel better by lightening the mood," I said, "but I'm on a mission here. I've asked you to meet me so that I can express my revised evil plan for world domination. And, of course, I'm asking for 
help from my minions."

"Wait, wait, wait," cried Claudia. "You're getting far ahead of me. First, are you really Lupe's ancestor and do you actually have an evil plan?"

Lupe placed a hand on Claudia's arm and shook the coconut--she shook her own personal coconut, not Claudia's. I was not to be diverted by any off-stage action so I refused to give up the floor and I continued with my plea.

"We Genomes do not lightly forget," I said. "Well, we do forget some things like appointments, people's birthdays, and mailing letters, but we don't forget abject suffering.

I don't know if you're aware but yesterday I experienced what your grandparents' day was called a nervous breakdown. I lost all structural support and collapsed into a heap on the floor."

"We heard," said Lupe. "And we want you to know that we're here for you even when we don't appear to be."

"Yeah," said Claudia. "We'll be your structural support."

"I spend all day, every day," I said, "looking for the silver lining, a little light music, a bit of cheerfulness. And what do I find? Grief! That's what I find. Loads of unrequited grief. I've had enough!"

Lupe patted my right hand and Claudia patted my left. I expected them to pat my head next and I suppose if I had two instead of one, the pats would have happened.

"Whenever I get that depressed," said Lupe, "the feeling turns into anger and I go out into the street and start knocking peoples' hats off. That usually helps."

"Oh," said Claudia, "I think Genome would never do something like that. You wouldn't would you?"

"I'm not always good and noble, Claudia," I said. "I am the hero of this story but I do have my off moments. Remember, the hypothalamus takes orders only from Princess Amy and the behavior that results is not always under my control."

"Is it really as bad as all that?" she said.

"Let me put it this way," I said. "It's never difficult to distinguish between the hypothalamus with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."

"C'est le vie!" said Lupe. "Just one long string of mistaken identities and rash acts and whatnot."

"But that's all done," I said. "From now on, it's going to be a different story. Today I finally open that gate and step out onto the yellow brick road."

Claudia gave Lupe a quizzical look. Is that a word, quizzical? Lupe explained, "It's a mixed reference to the Wizard of Oz and to a session with a shaman in Sedona, Arizona."

"What will you do differently?" she asked me.

"To start, I will inventory all those items in Mom's boxes and remove their power over me. They've become an anchor holding me back. Then I will review my success as a published travel writer and that will bolster my confidence and put me back on solid ground. From there, I will move forward one step and one day at a time."

"By Jove, I think you've got it!" said Lupe, and I recognized the gag from some musical or other but the exact source eludes me. Maybe one you're familiar with. Leave a comment below.

"And there's no better time like the present," she continued. "Shakespeare says, if you're going to do something, you might as well pop right at it and get it over with."

"Somehow, I feel that in the present circs, Shakespeare isn't the bimbo I care to follow. Someone like Napoleon perhaps."

"Forget Napoleon," said Lupe. "He's a bum. Listen to Jean Luc Piquard instead:

Make it so, Data! Engage!"

With her words of encouragement, I shot out of my chair as though I'd sat on a tack. I practically flew out the door and into the wide, blue, open. 

And here I still am today, engaged like the dickens! Buckle up is my advice and make sure the safety bars are in place.

It's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through, Billy Bob!

My Secret Mission

Some days begin with a bang, which is the way I like to think the Universe will end or, if not the Universe itself, then the end of the Genome. Banging, I mean, not whimpering. Give me a bang over a whimper any day. This particular morning got off to a banging start. It happened like this:


South Durham Renaissance District 

I was on my way to Dulce Cafe, looking forward to a caffe Americano and possibly an apple-walnut muffin. The morning was cool and refreshing and the windows of Wind Horse were down, the music was up, and Billy Squire assured me that everybody wants me. 

One can never be in a dark mood knowing that everyone wants you, of course. The song isn't one of those uplifting tunes that assure you that everything's going to be alright, but somehow, someway, just those words--everybody needs you, everybody wants you, make me feel good. There may be a moral in there somewhere but let's skip it for now.

For no reason in particular, I was thinking of a time, years past, when I'd just completed my duty to keep the western world safe from the Red Menace. We did our duty in those days. It was a way to repay just a little part of the benefits of living in a free world. Not like today when everyone is a hero in uniform. But that's another bit of derailment, what I want to talk about is Rome. I know. You didn't expect that.

My NATO assignment was completed in Stuttgart. If you happen to be American and have never served in the armed forces, let me explain that Stuttgart is a city in Germany. When my assignment was done, I was surprised to hear that I'd been reassigned to Rome. I speak now of the city in Italy, not the one in Georgia. And when I say, Georgia, I mean the one in...oh, never mind. 

I was feeling pretty good about Rome and when my Top Sargent told me that the mission was classified, I was pumped! Can you say, secret mission?

Now, I think I should point out that Master Sergeant Bones--not his real name--didn't actually say the mission was classified. His exact words were that he didn't know what the mission was about. But isn't that how these secret missions are discussed? No one comes right out with the goods. Loose lips and all that.

When I arrived in Rome, the lieutenant there told me that I was the first team member to arrive and that I should hang out somewhere nearby and report in each day. And so, that's how I came to live in Rome, about four blocks from the Spanish Steps, in a day and time when people were allowed to sit right down on the steps without fear of being fined.

Those were my thoughts this morning as I listened to Billy Squire and drew near the intersection where I would turn left. But before I could get into the turning lane, a maniac in a white pickup truck passed me in the turning lane and rocketed through the intersection.

Yes, I'm pretty sure that rocketed is just the word to describe it. As soon as he was past the intersection,  he suddenly made a sharp u-turn, as though remembering an errand and careening up onto two wheels, he came back toward that same intersection.

By that time I was halfway through my turn, which put us on a collision course. Well, you know how it is when two virile men confront each other, one fueled by testosterone, and one driven by a spoiled little brat of a limbic system. Someone's going to be unstoppable and someone's going to be taught a lesson. 

But I've been taught that lesson before, so I told Princess Amy to calm down and I slowed to allow the truck to make the turn.

Now we were driving down Fayetteville Street in single file. I was marshaling my insults and arranging what I hoped would be a withering, if not blistering, verbal attack on the fool. But before I finished the composition, this white-trucking, tattooed, bearded, MAGA-man turned into the Duke Fertility Clinic. 

Apparently, he'd been on his way to Chapel Hill, passed me at the intersection, and then realized at the last moment that the sperm was hot and couldn't be kept waiting. Knowing all that, how could I hold a resentment?

By the time I arrived at Dulce Cafe, I was cool, calm, and ready for my espresso, and besides, everybody wanted me. 

If you aren't familiar with the Market Place district of South Durham, let me explain that it's filled with what passes, in this part of Carolina, for Italian architecture. It's not actually Italian, of course, but it's pleasant enough and it brought Rome back to mind. 

It's not Italian but it's pleasant enough 

At the counter, Delores asked for my order. "Americano," I said. "I know you are," she said. She laughed and immediately, my memories returned to Sant'Eustachio il Caffe in Rome when I would walk up to the counter and say, "americano" and the barista would say, "I know," and all the guys behind the counter would laugh. It happened that way every morning. It never got old. 


Sant'Eustachio il Caffe

The secret NATO mission turned out to be not so secret and not really a mission. I spent several weeks in Italy waiting to hear something but it was a bust. A bust for the army but not for me. That mission turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

Dulce was quiet this morning and I became bored halfway through the coffee. As I drove back past the fertility clinic, I looked for the white truck, but it wasn't there. I guessed that the driver had gone through the drive-thru to make his deposit. 


For some reason, as I considered the fertility clinic, I thought of how I used to sit in Vatican Square and look for nuns wearing unusual habits--unusual to me. Some of them are quite amazing and amusing. 

I don't know why the fertility clinic made me think of the Vatican but it did. Maybe it had something to do with conception. What goes on in that clinic may not be immaculate but at least it's in sterile surroundings. That must count for something.

It was quite a morning--lots of banging--and of course, that's what we prefer, right?

Magic Happens

I don't know if you're familiar with the story of Mrs Lot and her rather fantastic finish? If so, you may want to skip to the next paragraph. However, if the name doesn't ring a bell, then here's the gist:

The unfortunate woman was the victim of history's worst practical joke. We must assume it was a practical joke because the story, as it's recorded leaves room for doubt. We do know that when told by her companions, 'Don't look now...', what do you think she did? Of course, she did look. Don't we all when told not to? 

The courtyard of Straw Valley

That much of the story isn't so fantastical but now we come to the punchline. When she looked, by some odd coincidence, according to my sources, (you aren't going to believe it), she turned into a pillar of salt! I know! Who'd have guessed? Salt!

The reason I mention it here is that a very similar thing happened to me this morning when Ms Wonder told me to let the Straw Valley thing go. You remember that I hoped to teach public qigong classes at that jewel of venues until I bobbled a reply to the event planner.

At any rate, while revisiting some old emails, I found an unopened missive from that same organizerReading from left to right, it said, 'I'd like to set up a day and time to talk.' 

Well, if you've been following along, you know how much I wanted this gig so it should not surprise you that I sat frozen with the smartphone in my hands like one of those peasants, who talk back to a wizard and--presto!--they turn into a pillar of salt, or something. Forgive me if I misalign some of the details.

And so this very morning I found myself walking into the courtyard of Straw Valley with an appointment to review the space with the planner. At the very moment I entered the coffee bar, I saw her walking my way and, I thought it very auspicious that she wore a smile.

It's moments like this that you find the Genome at his best--ice cold brain working like a Swiss army knife. Nothing creates so unfortunate a first impression as the hesitant utterance and the shifting from one foot to another like a south-side Fred Astaire. But I was up for it. I'd found the middle way. I'm sure, considering this and that, it must have been not unlike the Buddha.

As soon as she began to speak, I realized that this young woman created her own future, making things happen by sheer force of will. I quickly gave up control and simply allowed it all to happen. We agreed to begin with Sunday morning classes as soon as the new year could get here. I hoped it wouldn't be delayed by some unforeseen solstice nonsense.

I was deep into the moment, allowing the Universe to work its magic, and as I slowly emerged from the void, I heard her say something about making the deadline for the Indy newspaper and then she was gone with the wind. A sharp cry of joy escaped my lips. 

The sun, once hidden behind a gray veil, came shooting out like a startled rabbit, rolled up his sleeves, and got down to some serious shining. Birds in the shrubbery sang in four-part harmony, five probably, and I saw the world through a pink mist.

I knew it would be a perfect day when the barista swirled a heart into the foam of my morning latte

More Banging Less Grousing

"When I was a kid, we used to wait until dark and then build a big bonfire in Mr. Davis's front yard," I said to Ms. Wonder as she traipsed around the kitchen working up some new culinary delight.

"In the front yard?" she said with a touch of incredulity.

"We had big front yards in Shady Grove," I said. "The band was always located on the front porch, 'making music,' as the saying had it, and we didn't want the fire too near the band so we put it far out in the front yard, close to the road."

"Why build a bonfire at all?"

"Ah, it's one of those holdovers from the early days when my ancestors came over from Wales and were isolated in Appalachia. I didn't know that when I was a kid, but I didn't need to know. It was simply fun to have a bonfire in the night and that was reason enough. Much later, I learned that we were following a remnant of the old Celtic customs of our ancestors."

She glanced at me and I saw a sort of whatsit expression on her face. An expression that could easily have been followed by her excusing herself to attend to something she'd forgotten. I see that expression often when I begin one of the stories my childhood.

"You see, in Northern Europe, the Celts would build bonfires on the hilltops to help warm up the earth and add a little more light to the night. Moral support for the sun, I think it was. They would then beat drums to raise a ruckus and frighten the Spirit of Winter away. 

That was the whole point of May Day Eve--to push Winter back and encourage the new sun king to roll up his sleeves, spit on his hands, and get down to the business of summer."

"That's interesting," she said but her tone wasn't convincing.

"Well, the reason I bring it up..."

"Why do you bring it up?"

"Because I'm sick of winter and I'm sick of this virus thing. I don't like it. I know that members of our audience who operate from a base in New England or from the steppes of Russia are probably rolling their eyes right now at the thought of winter in North Carolina, but I'm sure we're all aligned in our disapproval of the virus. I think Providence has jumped the rails again, Poopsie. This is certainly not the stuff to give the troops if you want my opinion."

"Which troops," she said.

"Don't worry about which troops," I said. "We've had some warm days recently and I've seen the bluebird around the neighborhood and I do hope that she sets up shop on the corner and gets down to business soon. Bringing a little sweetness and light to the situation I mean. So I've decided to do my little part and start banging away and push this virus thing away with the winter."

"Banging?"

"That's right, I've built a bonfire in my heart and I'm going to start banging on anything that I can bang, which at present is Happy Cats Wellness, that online fount of information to keep cats and their caretakers healthy and happy."

"What do you plan to do with Happy Cats?" she said with a lot more enthusiasm than I'd noticed earlier in the conversation. "I thought you'd given it up, shut down the website, and closed the door."

"That's true," I said. "But Uma Maya has inspired me to crank it back up. I plan to stir up the Happy Cats website and launch a full-frontal social media attack."

"A little more of the Beltane analogy and a little less of the militarism," she said.

"Sorry, it's that old Napoleon line that runs through my soul," I said.

"Right," she said.

And so there you are dear reader. You've been apprised of the entire affair. You should now consider yourself banged to the fullest and you should feel much better for it. I'll keep you updated as the story progresses.