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.

Behind the Scenes: 'Driver's Ed' the Movie

When I learned that a movie production company was filming 'Drivers Ed'—a comedy with Molly Shannon and Kumail Nanjiani—in downtown Wilmington, I knew I had to be there! I set off on what I hoped would be the first of many exciting movie-set adventures.

The Naley Bench

Not everyone shares my excitement! Wilmington feels divided between the enchanted and the inconvenienced. At Circular Journey Cafe, baristas rave about Molly Shannon ordering a triple shot latte—"She was so nice, she even remembered my name!" 

Meanwhile, business owners are grumbling about closed streets and blocked parking. The city is experiencing a collective emotional rollercoaster that makes my internal dialogue with Princess Amy seem positively stable by comparison.

On the first day of filming, I positioned myself on Second Street, where crews prepared for an early morning shoot. I approached a harried-looking production assistant, flashing my virtual press badge (a potent combination of determination and high-octane espresso). With her arms full of walkie-talkies, she barely slowed down. 

"Press package already went out," she said, clearly mistaking me for someone with actual credentials. I took the hint. Besides, it was beginning to rain, and my coffee was being watered down—a greater tragedy than being turned away from the movie set. Princess Amy enjoyed the encounter. Whenever I get shot down in any setting for any reason, it brightens her day.

Small Victories

The first day of shooting was unproductive, but I didn't give up. At the start of the second day, I was outside Flaming Amy's on Oleander. You can read about that fiasco by searching for "Flaming Amy" on this blog. Spoiler alert: my internal GPS skills failed me spectacularly, reminding me of my childhood attempts at divining the future with Magic 8-Balls.

Persistence can sometimes yield great rewards, according to Ms. Wonder, and so on the third scheduled day of filming, I made my way from Circular Journey Cafe on Castle Street to film set on Orange. Fifteen minutes and one suspicious glance from security later, I was greeted by Tom, the Production Manager for Outer Banks Media. Persistence had paid off, and I felt I'd struck gold.

"Tell him about all the other movie sets we've visited," Amy said. "You want him to know that you're not just another curious noob." I ignored her.

Tom and I talked about our mutual love of film production, and I showed him my blog. He scanned it politely and nodded with the practiced neutrality of someone who sees far too many blogs written by aspiring pop-culture journalists. 

"We're using this place as a fraternity house set on the UNC campus in Chapel Hill. We're filming a fraternity party."

We continued our conversation, swapping stories about filming events around the area. Tom even shared gossip about upcoming shoots. Princess Amy tried to re-interpret everything Tom said to mean we had unlimited access to the set.

And then he did extend an invitation. I was surprise to the point of shock. He gave me permission to visit the sets and get all the photos and videos I wanted for my blog. 

"As long as you don't get in the way and don't take photos when the actors are on set."

Amy squealed so loudly, that I thought Tom might have heard her.

"Any of the production assistants will brief you on upcoming scenes, and you'll have to follow the same rules of conduct that everyone else on set follows."

"This is my dream," I told him. "I can hardly believe you're inviting me to observe what's usually treated as a secret, off-limits operation with signs that say 'Restricted Area' and 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

He laughed. "We think it's easier to not make a big production of it." A film production manager making an unintentional pun—I'd reached the pinnacle of insider status!

"Oh, one correction," he said, pointing to my blog post, "the crew that works overnight to get the set ready for an early morning shoot is called the Swing Gang." 

Then he excused himself to talk with a boom operator waiting for instructions. I nodded knowingly as if I hadn't just mentally pictured a group of night-shift workers doing synchronized dance routines with lighting equipment.

"Conga!" shouted Amy.

Rumors and Anecdotes

I spoke to a crew member hanging around the food truck, who described the vibe on set as "surprisingly chill for a comedy!" He gave Director Bobby Farrelly all the credit. "The director allows actors to go off script, improvising their lines, before honing in on the funniest moments."

"We're burning through stacks of memory cards because nobody wants to cut when they're on a roll!" he said. The bit about memory cards got past me—possibly a technical film term that my brain filed under "Pretend You Understand and Google Later." Maybe it means something to you?

"Let's check out the food truck," Amy said. She seemed to be particularly interested in a table of snacks in front of the truck.

Rumors are plentiful in the peanut gallery. The most persistent is one concerning a climactic scene set for Nathan and Haley's Bench, a beloved spot from 'One Tree Hill'! It's said to be a last-minute idea. Specialized camera gear was unloaded there, leading to speculation about a sunset or night scene. 

My mathematical probability calculations suggest an 87.3% chance this information is accurate, give or take whatever percentage makes me sound most authoritative.

Hits and Misses

I didn't get any footage from the Orange Street location, but I saw enough, even from a distance, to give readers a glimpse into the creative process! Sometimes witnessing movie magic is like trying to photograph a unicorn—the evidence is elusive, but the experience is enchanting.

"This is going to be great!" said Amy, who had remained quiet long enough for me to wonder if she'd found another brain to torment.

"I'm happy to hear you say that, Princess. It's going to be fun."

"Yeah, we can hang around all day and eat all we want from the service wagon," she said, her priorities suddenly crystal clear.

"What are you talking about? We can't eat the crew's food."

"Tom said we'd be treated like crew members," she countered.

"Not exactly. Just because we're allowed on set doesn't mean we can eat free.  You pay attention to what people say with the selective hearing of a teenager being told to clean her room"

"Why do you always spoil everything? We can eat all we want, and if anyone says anything, we'll say we didn't know we weren't allowed." Her logic, as usual, was a blend of opportunism and plausible deniability.

"It's that big dish of M&M's, isn't it?" I said. "You've got your eye on all those little candies."

"And the Coca-Cola," she said, not even trying to hide her scheming. "It would be so nice to hang here and scarf the goodies."

That's Princess Amy for you. She seems like a tyrant most of the time, but when it comes to 1980s foodstuffs, she becomes a little girl. I'm not saying I understand the psychology behind an imaginary royal's nostalgia for Reagan-era snacks, but then again, I don't understand most of what happens in my head on the best of days.

Walk Like a Duck

The day had been a magical spring Saturday, flourishing with promises of a dream life in paradise. As difficult as it was to say goodnight to such a wonderful day, I knew it was time to unwind and abandon myself to the soothing embrace of sleep. Just as I laid my head on the pillow, ready to let nature work its magic, I heard that mysterious voice:

"We're off to see the lizard," the voice said.

I know what you're thinking: Genome, what the hell, the mystery voice has always been a morning visitor? I know! That's what I thought, too. Apparently, mysterious voices aren't constrained by time. They must be elements of the fifth dimension.

Yes, I found it odd to hear the voice before going to sleep but my care-worn sleeves were coming unraveled, so I decided to think about it tomorrow. The tomorrow I had in mind came this morning.

After a deep, restful sleep had allowed sweet nature to complete a lot of mending, I woke and rolled out of bed.

It was a quiet, welcoming Sunday morning, reminding me of something Ms. Wonder once said, which goes something like this: I've seen glorious mornings flattering the mountaintops and kissing the meadows green. I'm paraphrasing, of course, but I'm amazed at how she comes up with these things and off the cuff, too.

I stumbled to the dressing room to get upholstered for the day, and once dressed, I re-entered the bedroom when Ms. Wonder stirred beneath the blankets, stretched, and mumbled,

"You walk like a duck."

Is it polite do you think to criticize someone's lack of physical grace, or any other lack for that matter, at the beginning of the day without so much as a Good morning? No, I think not!

As I drank it all in, it became clear that discussing it before she was fully awake would be futile. I said nothing but left for the Circular Journey Cafe and my regular Sunday morning coffee with Island Irv. I thought of nothing but Wonder's words on the Cape Fear River crossing.

Fortunately, the Islander was present when I arrived because I couldn't wait to get his reaction. 

"Irv," I said, "I hope you've had a pleasant week and all that but I have something to discuss with you that won't wait."

"Of course," he said. "Tell me all; ask me anything. Remember what Shakespeare said: if you intend to do something, jump into it without delay and get it over with quickly."

"I doubt it was Shakespeare," I said, "but I'm not here to talk about poets; here's what I want to ask--do I look like a duck?"

"Certainly not," he said immediately, with a confidence that became him well.

"Sorry," I said, "I meant to say, do I walk like a duck, not look like one."

"Walk like a duck?" he said. "That depends."

"No it doesn't," I said. "A man either does or does not walk like a duck. Now answer the question, please."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, "Give me an example."

"Oh, for goodness sake," I said. "A duck waddles from side to side, swinging the caboose, as it were."

"Hmmm," he repeated.

"And they have flat feet. Their feet slap on the floor with each step they take."

"Oh, right, and they bob their heads when they walk," he said, nodding his head forward and back.

"No, Irv! Chickens bob their heads; not ducks." 

"Oh, that's right. Yes, I knew that. Well, on the whole," he said, "considering this and that, I'd say no, you don't walk like a duck."

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. The pent-up anxiety began to subside. "Thank you for humoring me. Ms. Wonder told me I walked like a duck this morning, and, just as Shakespeare advised, I had to get a second opinion without delay. Walking like a duck would not do at all. I'm sure you understand."

"Not like a duck," he said again. "More like a loon, I'd say. Loons are a sort of duck, of course, but they do walk differently."

I didn’t wait around to hear more. Amy was rolling on the floor of my mind laughing hysterically and I'd bust a giblet. The day was ruined—nothing like an easy Sunday morning at Lionel Richie’s house.

When I finally returned home, I found Ms. Wonder on the lanai listening to the birds competing for a spot on Backyard's Got Talent. I escalated the conversation immediately and got the whole thing cleared up.

"Wonder!," I said. "Just what do you mean telling me I walk like a duck?" 

"What, if anything are you driveling about?"

"When you woke and stretched this morning, you distinctly said I walk like a duck."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Now I know what you're talking about. I did not say you walk like a duck." She was laughing when she said it, but I didn't see anything funny about it, and I began to tap my foot to indicate that I was heated up and not about to take it anymore.

"I was just waking up and I mumbled something like, Oooh...gotta wake up." Sounds a little like "You walk like a duck." Right? That must be what you misheard.

It was an easy mistake to make, of course. Anyone might have misunderstood her words mumbled into the blankets. It's not a big deal. I only mention it in passing.

Becoming Authentic Genome

My recovery from the burden of conformity and becoming my true self, the authentic Genome, is the central theme of The Circular Journey. It's the reason this blog exists. Occasionally, the core message can get lost in the self-aware humor I use to lighten up the work of personal growth.

As a child, I was taught to be quiet and obedient, which translated to the holy trinity of childhood virtues: sitting still, staying silent, and avoiding trouble—particularly in the hallowed arena of family gatherings. Consequently, during those Sunday afternoon congregations of extended family, I stood out from my same-age cousins like a librarian at a heavy metal concert.

My behavior was so dramatically different from the other kids that I might have registered a decimal point on the Richter Scale—technically present but nothing of seismic significance. No wonder I was regarded as mentally questionable and distressingly "different." 

When I entered the grand theater of public education at age six, I felt like the only actor who didn't receive a script or character description. I discovered it was easier to pretend to be like everyone around me than to be true to the person inside. So I improvised with the desperation of a man attempting to build a parachute after jumping from the plane.

Throughout my early life, I studied the behavior of my peers, adjusting my performance accordingly. By high school, I'd refined my chameleon act to perfection. I collected personalities like some collect baseball cards.

Oddly enough, this exhausting act propelled me toward what society terms "success." By my twenties, I'd mastered the art of being precisely what each situation demanded. 

Job interviews became performances where I was The Perfect Candidate, and romantic relationships thrived as I took on the role of the man my partners were searching for. My elaborate maze of personas left me questioning whether I would ever reconnect with my original self.

Around my late thirties, the facade began to fracture, culminating in a chaotic incident that resulted in what my therapist would later delicately term "an episodic break from consensual reality." I've always liked her way of describing what's usually thought of as an emotional breakdown.

Through court-mandated therapy, I slowly began a journey of self-discovery and self-awareness that helped me become re-acquainted with my authentic self, after years of pretending to be someone I never was.

My therapist—a woman with the patience of a geological formation and a refreshing ability to never be impressed by my performances—became my guide on the journey to authenticity. 

With her help, I learned to accept that my true self was never lost. Now, I embrace this rediscovered self like new shoes—initially awkward but surprisingly fitting. I may not fully understand who I've become, but I've found comfort in being myself.