The Heirloom’s Whisper

What a ride! Hang on tight! In this post, we're revisiting the "Jackson Synchronicity," a sequence of events so statistically improbable that even a "wild neural network" of squirrels would find it suspicious.

Between the voice of Nancy Sinatra on the radio and a woodpecker figurine with a resume from Jackson, Tennessee, I’ve become convinced that the universe has, in addition to a sense of humor, a particular, repetitive playlist.

I haven't been able to forget finding that figurine, and I can't shake the feeling that the story is unfinished. If you're thinking you must have arrived in the middle of the story, let me clarify that I'm talking about Woodrow, the carpenter woodpecker.

I apologize to the regulars, who read every post and have been with me since the beginning. If you will bear with me for a moment, I'll provide the backstory for newcomers.

I never know where to begin when revisiting a published story. I don't want to bore the regular followers and cause them to start looking for the channel selector, but if I jump right into the thick of the story, newcomers become cross-eyed.

Here’s the short of it: Woodrow is a hand-painted woodpecker in overalls who, by all indications, is “experiencing technical difficulties”—and whom I rescued from a thrift store shelf. He came from Jackson, Tennessee, the same Jackson that had been haunting my radio dial like a persistent hitchhiker for more than three hours. He wasn’t just a tchotchke; he was a cosmic souvenir. 

The reason I can’t let him go is that lately, Woodrow has been staring at me from my desk with a look that seems to whisper, "I’m not just here for the aesthetic, Cowboy." How he knows I was a 'space cowboy' in a former life is part of the mystery.

Here's the thing: I recently sat down to edit a podcast—a task that, as you know, is the digital equivalent of herding cats. I was struggling with a particularly stubborn audio glitch. Every time I tried to level the track, the software would freeze. I would then lean back, sigh a breath of pure, unadulterated "Why Bother?" and my gaze would immediately land on Woodrow.

There he was in all his glory, hammer in hand, his bill stuck in that piece of wood. The title on his base, "Experiencing Technical Difficulties," felt less like a whimsical label and more like a direct critique of my afternoon.

After the third locked screen, I reached out and tapped Woodrow's little ceramic head. "What do you know that I don't, Woodrow?"

Instantly, a notification appeared on my screen, telling me an automated update was being installed for the editing software. The version number?  J-206-FM-80.

Now, I’m not saying the "J" stands for Jackson. That would be leaning a bit too far into the Franklin & Bash side of my personality. But still, stranger things have happened. I read the software update notes, and the very first bug fix listed was for "syncing issues between disparate audio tracks."

Disparate tracks. Like a song by Nancy Sinatra, a log of turtles, a county sheriff’s SUV, and a woodpecker from Tennessee all suddenly playing the same tune at the same time.

It occurred to me then that Woodrow isn't just a soul vessel; he’s a reminder that the 'technical difficulties' of life are often the very things that lead us to the next chapter of the Circular Journey. We spend so much time trying to "optimize" our lives (sorry, A-5, I’m still the pilot here) that we miss the beauty of the glitch.

So, I’ve decided to take Woodrow’s advice. I stopped fighting the software, closed the laptop, got a refill of caffeine, and headed down Ocean Highway to Ocean Isle. Because if the universe is going to go through the trouble of alignment—using everything from satellite radio to ceramic birds—the least I can do is be present for the show.

I still haven’t found the Creature of the Brunswick Lagoons, but I have a feeling Woodrow knows exactly where it’s hiding. He’s probably just waiting for the right song to come on the radio before he lets me know where to look. And I'm OK with that. It's cold here today, and looking for cryptids requires warm weather.

Courthouse Chronicles: Franklin & Bash

"We'll leave at 1:00 to go downtown," said the Wonder as I walked into the kitchen to make coffee. I remember wondering why she didn't start with a "Good morning," but I let it go. Instead, I asked, "Why so early? It's only a 10-minute drive."

I don't know if you've had this experience, but I woke up with an attitude. It doesn't happen often, but it does—especially after one of those dreams. If you've been here before, you probably know exactly what I mean.

This particular dream was directly connected to the podcast editing I've been doing over the past few days. If you read my recent post about Ms. Wonder's upcoming photography exhibit in New York, you know that I'm staging a series of podcasts for auto-publishing so I can clear a week to attend the show.

In the dream, I was recording an ad for one of the podcast's sponsors. Of course, in our ordinary four-dimensional reality, the podcast doesn't have sponsors at all. But in the dream dimension, I'd somehow landed a lucrative partnership:

"And now, a word of shameless self-promotion…
I manage a tech media empire—blogs, podcasts, articles, and documentaries. Technology is constantly changing, but I don't worry about it, because I'm partnered with Squirrel Socks. Their on-demand learning platform offers hands-on, expert-led courses that help me master new skills fast and stay ahead of the curve. With Squirrel Socks, I don't fear what's next—I chase it. SquirrelSocks, the wild neural network in my backyard.
Now, back to the podcast…"

Yes, Squirrel Socks. Because my subconscious thinks woodland creatures are the future of tech education, and it has something to do with their footwear. When I woke up, I spent a solid five minutes wondering if SquirrelSocks.com was actually available as a domain name. (Spoiler: I didn't check. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.)


Let's get back to the subject as re: If you recall, I'd just asked Wonder why we were leaving so early.

"I thought it would be necessary to find a nearby parking space, and then we can have coffee at Bespoke before heading to the courthouse."

Her answer tied me in knots. I wanted to ask why we were going to the courthouse and why we'd have trouble finding parking downtown on a weekday, but I let both questions go. Instead, I said, "Oh, cool! I haven't had coffee at Folks Cafe in ages."

"You have—you just don't remember," she said, and I felt as though I were in an episode of The Kominsky Method. 

It turned out that the main event planned for the day was a show of support for the river tour operators, who were being harassed by the homeowners' association of a high-rise condo overlooking the Riverwalk. Because nothing says "community spirit" quite like wealthy condo owners versus hardworking tour boat captains. I could already sense this was going to be peak entertainment.

The coffee took the edge off my mood, and I started looking forward to revisiting Folks Cafe. But no. A few minutes after we parked downtown, I realized Wonder had actually said "Bespoke Cafe," not "Folks Cafe." My dream-addled brain had apparently decided to engage in a little creative interpretation. 

After caffeination, we headed uptown toward the courthouse. The pedestrian signal changed, we stepped into the street, and the crosswalk was immediately blocked by a county sheriff's SUV that pulled to a stop at the curb. We slipped behind it and crossed the street, but as I slipped behind the vehicle, I gave it a slap with my open hand, and why not? I was already armed with a perfectly reasonable excuse in case the officer thought I was being impertinent, vis: I'm cautious to a fault about Ms. Wonder's safety and wanted the driver to know we were forced to walk behind his car. 

Naturally, it was impertinent to smack the back of a policeman's vehicle. Still, it was a small joy, and I felt I'd earned it, given how the day was unfolding. Plus, if Squirrel Socks could exist in my dreamscape, surely I could tap a sheriff's SUV in broad daylight.

I was beginning to feel better about the day—especially about the courtroom proceedings. In the evenings at home, we watch reruns of Franklin & Bash, where the courtroom was a comedy stage, and I hoped to find blogging inspiration in the proceedings. I envisioned witty repartee, dramatic reveals, maybe even a tasteful objection or two delivered with perfect timing.

Alas. Isn't it often the case that our little hearts are disappointed to learn that life isn't always what we hoped for?

The first to speak, after the bailiff's call to order, was the attorney for the good guys. He rambled on for over an hour, even though he had only three points of argument. Three points. One hour. That's twenty minutes per point, which is either dedication to thoroughness or a masterclass in verbal padding.

At last, the speaker sat down, and the judge called on the lawyer for the dark side of the force. He was worse, my friend—far, far worse. The night before, I'd watched an episode of Emily in Paris where the main characters pelted each other with baguettes, and I began to wish for one of those perfectly hand-sized baked missiles. From my seat in the gallery, I was certain I could bounce one off the back of the counselor's head. 

The whole affair was nothing like Franklin & Bash. I left the courtroom wondering why anyone would attend a legal hearing for entertainment. I suppose my dad had his finger on the nub when he said, "It takes all kinds." Rem acu tetigesti, like the dickens, baby.

After spending two hours listening to Mutt and Jeff swap 'he said, she saids,' the judge finally commented on the arguments. His "verdict" was that he wasn't sure he had jurisdiction to rule. What now? Two hours of legal theater, a bomb threat, an SUV-assisted jaywalking adventure, and a caffeinated case of mistaken identity—all leading to "Sorry, not my job."

All in all, I'd call it a textbook case for The Circular Journey. Don't you agree? I know that somewhere in the wild neural network of my backyard, the squirrels are definitely laughing and pulling up their socks with a smirk.

Mindfleet Academy: Stardate 2026.1

It was 23:00 hours on New Year's Eve when Princess Amy's voice crackled across all channels with the unmistakable edge of controlled panic: "All senior staff report to the bridge for Year-End Threat Assessment!"

I materialized on the bridge with a sigh. "Amy, it's New Year's Eve, not a tactical emergency. Can't we just have a peaceful transition into 2026?"

She spun her command chair to face me, eyes wide. "Ambassador, we're about to cross into completely uncharted temporal coordinates! We have zero intelligence data about what's waiting for us in 2026. This is literally 'to boldly go where no one has gone before'—and I don't like it!"

Before I could respond, First Officer Reason stepped forward from his science station. "Captain, while I understand your concern about insufficient data, I must remind you that in the original Star Trek television series, Mr. Spock once said, ‘Change is the essential process of all existence'. Despite what we might prefer, the new year will commence at precisely midnight regardless of our preparedness protocols."

"That's exactly my point!" Amy exclaimed. "Everything could change! What if—"

"Captain," Mr. Reason interrupted with Vulcan-like calm, "I've conducted a comprehensive analysis of our 2025 mission logs. We encountered forty-seven major crises that you initially classified as 'civilization-ending events,' and yet current status reports indicate civilization remains operational. The statistical probability that you've overestimated 2026 threats is approximately 94.7%."

Amy's shoulders relaxed slightly. "But what about the other 5.3%?"

Reason's eyebrow arched. "That, Captain, is where the wisdom of Captain Kirk applies: 'Risk is our business.' We cannot eliminate all uncertainty. We can only prepare logically and proceed with available data."

Engineering's Concerns
Chief Engineer Anxiety's voice burst from the intercom, thick with worry. "Aye, but Mr. Reason, what if the ship's systems cannae handle what 2026 throws at us? I cannae change the laws of physics! If 2026 brings challenges beyond our current capacity—well, stranger things have happened.”

"Scotty," I interjected, "you kept this ship running through every crisis 2025 threw at us. Remember the Mohs surgery mission? The terracotta pot odyssey? The doomsday clock panic?"

"Aye, but those were 2025 problems!" he exclaimed. "And don't call me Scotty! I know what you're insinuating when you call me that. And the question still has merit, Ambassador. What if the Mindfleet Academy training missions require capabilities we don't have?"

Reason turned toward the engineering station. "Chief, your concerns demonstrate appropriate caution. However, I would direct you to Scotty's own wisdom from that same television series: 'The more they overthink the plumbing, the easier it is to stop up the drain.' Perhaps simplicity serves us better than elaborate contingency protocols."

The Weight of Memory
Dr. Downer emerged from the medical bay, her expression contemplative. "You want to know what I think about 2026? I'll tell you what I think: I'm a doctor, not a crystal ball! But I can tell you what I saw in 2025..."

She paused, and the bridge fell silent.

"We faced disappointments. We watched plans crumble. Oh sure, we avoided catastrophe, but barely. And it hurt. It still hurts." Her voice carried the weight of every sorrow the year had held. 

"Here's what I know about 2026—it won't be paradise. And maybe we weren't meant for paradise. Maybe we were meant to struggle. That's what 2026 will be. More struggle. More loss. More—"

"More life, Doctor," Communications Officer Joy interrupted softly, turning from her console. "More chances to connect. More opportunities to grow."

A Message of Hope
Joy stood, facing the assembled crew, and addressed us with warmth in her voice. "Dr. Downer is right that we'll face challenges. Princess Amy, excuse me, Captain Amy is right that we can't predict them. Chief Anxiety is right to be concerned about our capacity. And Reason is right that change is inevitable."

She smiled. "But here's what I know about communication, about connection, about being human: we're all works in progress. Every single one of us. 2025 didn't finish us—it added chapters to our story. Mindfleet Academy will add more."

"But what if those chapters are bad, what if we fail?" Amy asked.

"You know what I've learned monitoring communications this year?" Joy replied. "I've learned that the suspicions people have about each other disappear when they get to know each other. And we're usually wrong about our capacity to handle what comes."

Crew Reflections
With thirty minutes until midnight, we gathered for what Starfleet would call an "informal briefing" and what I call necessary honesty.

Chief Anxiety spoke first. "I suppose there's truth in what you say. Most of my worst-case scenarios didn't happen. And there's evidence that we're more resilient than I supposed."

"Fascinating observation," Reason added. "I would note that I've learned that my calculations can predict probabilities, but they can't account for the human capacity for adaptation and creativity under pressure."

Dr. Downer nodded slowly. "I learned that sadness isn't the enemy. It's the price we pay for caring about things. For loving people. For trying. And that's not a bug in the system—it's what makes us human."

Princess Amy's voice was barely above a whisper. "I learned that sometimes a feeling is all we humans have to go on. Even when it's anxiety or fear. It just means we're paying attention."

Joy's smile brightened the bridge. 

I took a breath. "I learned that it is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose, and that's not a weakness; it's just life. Much of 2025 didn't turn out the way I planned, but the detours sometimes led exactly where I needed to go."

Five Minutes to Midnight
Amy checked the chronometer. "Five minutes to temporal shift. Ambassador, as captain of this vessel and chief of emotional operations, I need to know: what's our strategy for 2026?"

"Strategy?" I said. "Amy, I don't think we need a strategy. I think we need a change of attitude."

"That's not reassuring!"

"No, but it's honest." I moved to stand beside her command chair. "We will face 2026 together. With Reason's logic, Anxiety's vigilance, Downer's honesty, and Joy's hope. With your leadership, even when you're terrified. Especially when you're terrified."

The chronometer ticked down. One minute.

"Ambassador?" Amy's voice was small. "I'm scared."

"I know, Captain. Me too. But you know what Captain Picard said at the end of his journey?"

"What?"

"'Let's see what's out there.'"

She stared at me. "That's it? That's your big inspirational moment?"

I smiled. "That's it. We can't predict what 2026 will bring, and we can't control it. All we can do is face it together and see what's out there."

"It'll probably be harder than we expect," Dr. Downer added.

"And more beautiful than we can imagine," Joy finished.

The chronometer hit midnight. And here we still are--the crew and you, our followers--hoping for the best year of our lives, and ready to face whatever comes our way. 

Captain's Log, Supplemental
We have successfully crossed into the year 2026. All systems are operational. Crew status: anxious but functional. Uncertain but together.

The GMS Coastal Voyager continues its ongoing mission: to explore strange new challenges, to seek out new solutions to life's mysteries, and to boldly go where this mind has never gone before.

The Year of Second Chances

Welcome back to the Circular Journey Cafe. I’m so happy you’re here, because I have some exciting news to share. I wish I could shout it from the mountaintops—but coastal living doesn’t offer many of those. So instead, the towering heights of the 600 block of Castle Street will have to do, if you’ll join me that is.

"Finally!" exclaimed Princess Amy, my imaginary critic and part-time life coach. Her tiara was practically vibrating with excitement. "We can dust off our press credentials and get back to what we do best."

“Remind me, exactly what it is we do ?" I asked, genuinely curious about her assessment of our track record.

She mused on the question before answering. “Well, I’d say eating craft services food and taking abstract photos of background extras is our specialty."

She had a point. Our previous attempts at documenting film productions have gone about as smoothly as folding a fitted sheet. I’m sure my track record hasn’t helped: getting lost, parking illegally, and being turned away by security guards is basically my signature move. Still, we learn from our mistakes if what I hear is correct.

"This could be our big break," Amy continued, "We could become the unofficial chronicler of Wilmington's film scene!"

"Unofficial being the operative word," I reminded her. "And let's not forget that 'big break' and 'spectacular failure' have been virtually synonymous in our recent attempts."

“Still,” I hurriedly added, “I’m cautiously optimistic. Ms. Wonder has been coaching me on what she calls ‘strategic preparation.’ Just yesterday, she said, ‘Genome, maybe this time you could research the filming locations a little more thoroughly. Maybe even contact the production office ahead of time.’”

"She even suggested investing in a proper camera instead of relying on my phone for 'professional' documentation. Amy, I'm telling you there's none like her. She..."

"No, don't say it," said Amy. "I know all about her wonders and the mysterious ways she works them. You don't need to say that every time you mention her name."

"I do repeat myself a lot," I said. "I'm working on that."

Amy simply nodded, sipped her cappuccino, and left the table to reorder or something—she sort of evaporated from my imagination the way she often does.

The truth is, I’m genuinely excited about RJ Decker. For months, we’ve watched other cities land the big productions while Wilmington’s soundstages stayed quiet. So having an ABC pilot choose our fair city feels like a much-needed vote of confidence in our local film industry.

The new series is described on IMDB like this: 

"Ex-con photographer RJ Decker reinvents himself as a private investigator in South Florida, chasing down bizarre cases with backup from his journalist ex-wife and her cop wife. It's questionable whether his newly invented self will save him or destroy him." 

When do we begin stalking the production office?" Amy asked, returning to our table, where I imagined her eating a cheese danish and sipping a fresh coffee. 

"We observe," I corrected, although I knew shed nailed what we actually do. "We observe from a respectful distance. After obtaining proper permissions."

"That sounds like a suggestion from Ms. Wonder," she said, "and to be honest, it sounds boring." My ears pricked up when she said, 'it sounds boring,' and I knew right away that she was already planning our reconnaissance mission.

That's about all there is to report from our fair city at the beginning of 2026. And so, I say, here's to RJ Decker—may it bring thrills to our screens, jobs to our community, and with any luck, blog material that doesn't end with me being escorted away by security.

Houston, We Have a Problem

Several years ago, just before we moved to Houston, my friend Pooh and I decided we needed cheap office space. Rather than shop around, we accepted an offer to sublet a little room in a questionable business collective housed in a dilapidated storefront in downtown Chattanooga.

It was the kind of place where the sketchy-but-legal world of bail bonds collided head-on with the outright fraudulent, darkly comic schemes of a rogue real estate broker. The air carried the musty aroma of whispered arrangements, questionable offhand comments, and a shared commitment to maintaining plausible deniability.

The Three-Ring Circus 

The business sat on Georgia Avenue, high on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. It was a strategic location, only a few blocks from the city jail, which gave it a distinct competitive edge in the “bonding out” business.

Originally a private residence in the 1940s, the building had since been carved up into a nesting doll of businesses. The front door opened into the realty company’s reception area, a depressing room outfitted with scarred imitation leather and folding chairs. Gayle, the receptionist, sat at a desk that might as well have been a fortress built to repel irate clients.

A door behind Gayle’s desk led to Otto, the broker and landlord for the other tenants. Another door, centered on the back wall, opened into Scooter’s bail bonds office. Scooter was a longtime friend from high school and college, and he was the one who invited Pooh and me to sublet the small room off his office.

To get to our desks, we had to run a daily gauntlet: enter through the realty office’s front door, greet Gayle and explain our presence as we passed through reception, nod to Scooter while threading our way past the ex-cons who frequented his place, and finally slip into the storeroom—our “office.”

The Nuts and Bolts 

Our small room held two small desks facing each other. It was otherwise crammed with the literal collateral of the bail bonds trade: televisions, VHS players, sets of sterling tableware, a velvet painting of Elvis, and a startling collection of George Foreman grills. Otto kept a personal stash back there too: a few guns, some ammo, and a box of regulation handcuffs he’d scored on eBay. Curiously, our “office” also had a small back door hidden behind a Japanese shoji screen, in case we ever needed to disappear in a hurry.

The amenities were few but serviceable: a tiny bathroom that Gayle miraculously kept spotless, a coffee maker she kept perpetually hot and full, and a box of maple-frosted Dunkin’ doughnuts that she had shamed Otto into providing every morning. She hid the doughnuts in a different spot each day, but always let Scooter, Pooh, and me know exactly where the treasure was buried.

The Cast of Characters 

Daily entertainment came courtesy of the steady rotation of Otto’s “real estate” clients. Their conversations were impossible to ignore, drifting into our small room on a warm front of cheap cologne, bad decisions, and sweaty desperation.

I distinctly remember the woman in the ancient fur stole asking about the replacement value of a hypothetical “missing” heirloom, accompanied by a man who specialized in appraising things at suspiciously high valuations. But the character who really deserves his own credits sequence was a man known only as “Spoon.”

Spoon never introduced himself, and no one ever saw him enter; he simply appeared. He was usually dressed in jeans, an ill-fitting blazer, and work boots. One afternoon, after a hushed, intense meeting behind the closed door of Otto’s office, Spoon emerged and addressed the reception area with the weary professionalism of a man headed to a boring corporate seminar.

“Well,” he said with a deep sigh, shooting the cuffs of his shirt like a CEO addressing the board, “I’m off to park a man’s car on the tracks of that railroad crossing out in St. Elmo.”

He walked out without waiting for a reply. The whole scene lasted ten seconds, leaving Pooh and me in a state of synchronized, silent dumbfoundment. It confirmed everything we’d suspected about the nature of Otto’s “work” and left us pondering the difference between a defense of plausible deniability and simply being very, very convincing.

The Danger Zone 

Pooh and I left that office after only a few months and relocated to Houston. Not long after, Scooter called. He had tracked a high-value FTA—a defendant who had “failed to appear” in court—to a residence in Houston. Scooter was on the hook either to haul the guy back to court or kiss his bail money goodbye. He explained over the phone that he wanted Pooh and me to help him apprehend the “skipper.”

When Scooter showed up and asked for a meeting to discuss the plan, I wasted no time defining my role in the operation: “I’m not going, Scooter. If you get shot, you’ll need to crawl out to the sidewalk, because I’m not coming inside to retrieve you.”

He looked genuinely wounded. “I thought we were friends,” he said. “I’d walk on fire for you. I’d bitch-slap the devil for you. You wouldn’t catch me sitting in a car while my friend goes into the danger zone to uphold the law of this great land!”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t back you up,” I countered, leaning into the peculiar spirit of our friendship. “I’ll be right behind you, ole buddy. I’ll be so far behind you, I might as well be in Louisiana.”

I don’t know whether he ever took the FTA back to Chattanooga. He never spoke of it again, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s best to simply never know. However, the episode confirmed a vital life lesson for me: while some friends are willing to walk on fire, I’m perfectly content to maintain a safe, astronomical distance from the flames. It’s a policy I rely on to this day. I recommend it highly.