Decade of Decadence

I love music from the 1980s. It was a remarkable decade: great performers, powerful voices, addictive rhythms, and music videos that, let’s be honest, sometimes made absolutely no sense. That made them even more fun. 

I was listening to Lionel Ritchie and grooving to Dancing on the Ceiling as I drove into the heart of Wilmywood this morning. Naturally, I mentioned it to the little princess who lives in my head.

“The 1980s were the best era for popular music.”

“The Decade of Decadence,” she said. “Big hair; bigger shoulder pads; songs about people who couldn’t get through an afternoon without falling in love, falling apart, or taking their clothes off.”

“That’s a rather narrow interpretation.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. The music was extraordinary. The performers were people like us, if we’d chosen musical careers. We could all have been rock stars in the '80s.”

“Name three extraordinary songs.”

Music That Is Meaningful and Memorable
"Okay," I said. "What I like best are the mood-lifting songs, whether or not they get a Grammy nomination. Others make me want to sing along. A few of them reach a place inside me that I didn’t know existed. 

Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You is one of them. When she sings those words, I have the peculiar feeling that she’s singing directly to me, as if she’s saying goodbye. It brings up an emotional mix of love and loss. I tried to explain this to Amy.

“So,” she said, “you hear Whitney Houston sing that song and take it as a personal farewell?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“No.”

“Did you go to one of her concerts?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Amy shook her head. “Let’s move on.”

Another song that holds a special place in my heart is Faithfully by Journey. During the seventeen years we lived at Chatsford Hall, ten cats became part of our family, though never all at once. We called ourselves the Chatsford Tribe, and each cat was cherished and loved.

“Faithfully has become the anthem for all the furry members of our family,” I told Amy. “And Celine Dion’s Where Does My Heart Beat Now belongs to one very special member of that tribe.”

Amy was unusually quiet for a moment.

“All love songs,” she scoffed.

“I love all kinds of music, not just love songs.”

“Really? Keep naming them. I can’t wait.”

I decided Amy needed a little education.

The Case for Having Fun
Not every song carries a heavy emotional history. When I hear Prince’s Delirious, I experience spontaneous joy. I’m transported to a place where life is ridiculously fun and happy. 

I shared that nugget with Amy and added, "Sometimes the feeling lasts only as long as the song; sometimes it carries me through the rest of the day.”

“That’s interesting,” Amy said. “You have a musical happiness button.”

“Exactly!”

“Have you considered that music might be easier than therapy?”

“I have thought of that.”

“Apparently, all you need is a Prince playlist.”

“Another favorite is Michael Jackson’s P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing). I don’t actually know the lyrics, but I love the groove. Michael’s perfectly timed vocal inflections and those wonderfully smooth backup harmonies release the feel-good chemicals in my brain.

Amy looked puzzled. “You love a song, but you don’t know what he’s singing about?”

“I don’t need to know the words to appreciate the music.”

“Convenient.”

“And I sing along anyway.”

“How can you join in when you don’t know the lyrics?”

“I improvise.”

“Ah. So you’re not singing the song. You’re composing your own version.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

A Little Less Sentiment, Please

"My musical tastes aren’t entirely sentimental,” I said. “John Fogerty’s Centerfield takes me back to the years I taught aerobics classes. It began every mixtape I made for class, and I can’t help smiling whenever I hear it.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “You made mixtapes? With actual cassette tapes?”

“Yes, Amy. That’s how we did it.”

“And if you made a mistake?”

“You rewound the tape with a No. 2 pencil and started over.”

She looked genuinely appalled. “How did anyone survive?”

The Verdict, Such As It Is

I thought I’d made a pretty convincing case for the decade. Amy, however, wasn’t ready to concede.

“Let’s not forget that it was a time for celebrating decadence,” she said. “The hairstyles alone were shocking.”

“Hair has nothing to do with music.”

“Have you seen the photographs?” She paused, then added, “Still, you named some good songs.”

I smiled. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Perhaps Amy is right: the ’80s deserve the title “Decade of Decadence.” But the music still makes me laugh and dance. Somehow, the songs and memories say what I can’t quite put into words. And when a song can do that, who cares if its video features a marching band of Egyptian dancers?

The Lavender Conspiracy

I'm sure you've been following along as I recount my self-improvement journey over the last few weeks. You will no doubt be pleased to hear that I reserved today for doing whatever I wanted. One day, free of "I must" and "I should."

I fully intended the day to be another of those 'living in paradise' days everyone talks about. Such a day as that has to begin with a steaming mug of the globally grown and locally roasted.

“Where’ve you been?” the barista asked, leaning across the counter with the conspiratorial gleam of someone about to dish state secrets.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“You’re two-timing us, aren’t you!”

“Can one actually two-time a coffee shop, Ahwet?” I replied, but she'd already launched into it.

She lowered her voice to better diss on a notoriously difficult, high-strung customer who, she claimed, “desperately needs to calm down.”

Apparently, the gentleman standing at the end of the bar, within earshot, had attempted a minor insurgency involving a fake loyalty card to pay for his absurd, hyper-specific order: a triple-pump lavender oat-milk macchiato heated to exactly 165 degrees.

Ahwet paused after each declaration, waiting for my validation. I offered the kind of noncommittal, diplomatic grunts reserved for political debates and amateur plumbing advice, trying desperately not to get drawn into a brewhaha.

“Can you believe someone actually drinks this stuff?” she demanded, shaking her head.

“Frankly," I whispered, "I hate lavender flavoring in coffee. "Jah Jah flavors should be nutty and nothing else.”

She blinked, having been momentarily thrown off script. “Really? Not even a splash of oat milk?”

“I used to drink oat-milk coffee,” I replied quietly, glancing down the counter to make sure I wasn't overheard. “But I stopped after mistakenly ordering oatmeal, rather than oat milk. Turns out, porridge-density brew is an acquired taste.”

Ahwet, however, was completely absorbed in her tale of the counterfeit punchcard. As she passionately reenacted the legalistic debate over coffee-card ethics, her hands seemed to work on autopilot—whirring, steaming, and pumping with theatrical flair. Within seconds, she’d put a lid on my cup, flashed a radiant smile, and wished me a wonderful day.

I scanned the café for one of my regulars, but the familiar cast of philosophers was nowhere to be seen. I pivoted on my heels, a move honed over decades of needing to be somewhere else in a hurry. A moment later, I was through the door and behind the wheel of Wind Horse.

I fired up the engine and pulled onto 3rd Street in one smooth motion. Bystanders would have been suitably impressed, had there been any out at this hour. Traffic was moving at a reasonable clip, giving me a moment to breathe. Just before crossing the bridge, I reached for my cup, peeled back the lid, and prepared to enjoy my foamy, hazelnut brew.

But it was not to be. My palate was instead assaulted by a botanical catastrophe: the frothy, steaming brew tasted suspiciously like a triple-pump lavender oat-milk macchiato, calibrated to exactly 165 degrees.

I stared in horror at the cuppa. Distracted by her gossip and seemingly bound by some immutable law of quantum physics, our two coffee orders had become entangled, and my hazelnut latte had collapsed into his lavender at the speed of gossip.

Somewhere in a nearby Wilmington district, a high-strung man sat in a traffic jam, staring into a cup of plain, nutty coffee, wondering why the universe had suddenly abandoned him. And I? I was crossing the Cape Fear River, drinking a lavender potpourri sachet.

'Entanglement,' Amy said, 'If this is the price of self-improvement, I recommend you stick to talking with stones in your mouth like that ancient Greek orator.'

A Mindfleet Reunion

Ambassador’s Log, Stardate 2026.271

The extraction mission to Douglass Park has concluded. Cadet Reginald was last seen riding in a DeLorean-themed golf cart alongside Mr. William Shatner. The Ambassador has returned to the FMS Coastal Voyager empty-handed and smelling faintly of sauerkraut.

The Quiet Bridge

The bridge of the Voyager had never been so quiet. It was unnerving everyone.

Captain Amy sat in the command chair, chin in hand, gazing trance-like at the viewscreen. She had not issued a single unreasonable order in nineteen hours, and it was beginning to annoy her.

“Status,” she said, without any real enthusiasm.

“All systems nominal, Captain,” said Major Reason from the science station. “I’ve run the mustelid search algorithm eleven times. It keeps returning the same result: no hits. No weasels, otters, badgers, wolverines, or ferrets.”

“Fascinating,” Amy murmured, without her usual enthusiasm. “Such a specific list.”

At the communications console, Lieutenant Joy offered a brave smile. “He’s resourceful, Captain. I’m sure the little troublemaker is having a wonderful time wherever he is.”

“Statistically,” Dr. Downer began, then abruptly stopped. She looked down at her hands before continuing. “I’m sure you’re right, Lieutenant.”

The bridge crew exchanged glances. A gentle Dr. Downer was a bad omen, and we all knew it.

“Captain,” Chief Engineer Anxiety said over the intercom, “a wee flicker just occurred in the power draw along the Jefferies Tubes. It was only three-tenths of a percent, so it’s probably nothing. I’m mentioning it only because regulations require it.”

“Probably nothing,” said Amy, “is exactly how every fiasco begins.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Anxiety. “That’s exactly what I’ve been sayin’.”

Small Mysteries

“I replaced my boot laces this morning,” Lieutenant Joy said. “Now I realize they’re gone. Just disappeared. Strange.”

“Humans often misplace objects during periods of emotional stress,” said Major Reason.

“Perhaps,” Joy replied, sniffing bravely.

Moments later, Chief Anxiety reported a second anomaly. “Captain, the replicator in the crew mess has started producing small piles of shiny objects. Bottle caps. Costume jewelry. Nobody ordered them. They just appear in tidy little piles.”

Captain Amy rose from the command chair. For the first time in nineteen hours, her spine straightened like a drawn phaser.

“A pattern,” she said. “Missing boot laces. Unauthorized shiny objects. Fluctuations in the Jefferies Tubes.” Her eyes narrowed. “Major Reason, begin a ship-wide sweep immediately.”

“Captain,” said Reason, “these anomalies may be nothing more than coincidence.”

“I don’t care,” said Amy. “Doing something—anything—is better than sitting here pining.”

It was, I reflected, the most Princess Amy sentence she had ever spoken.

The Discovery

The sweep ended where it should have begun: at the ventilation grate above the bridge.

“Captain,” Reason announced, “the thermal readings in this duct are consistent with a small, warm-blooded organism. And there’s a faint sound. It sounds a little like…” He paused. “Snoring.”

Amy didn’t speak. She pointed at the grate. I produced a screwdriver. The screws came out more easily than ever, as though they’d simply been waiting for someone to ask.

The grate swung open.

There, curled atop a nest of loot, lay Cadet Reginald, fast asleep. He slumbered Smaug-like over an astonishing collection of tin foil, bottle caps, a single earring, and six stolen boot laces. A Riot Festival wristband circled one foreleg.

Silence descended on the bridge. Major Reason’s eyebrows rose to altitudes not previously recorded by Mindfleet instruments. Dr. Downer said, “Well, you don’t see that every day.”

Lieutenant Joy swayed like a woman who had just snorted Kool-Aid powder, thinking it was nose candy. She gripped the edge of her console to steady herself.

“For the record,” said Dr. Downer, peering into the duct, “this loot pile is a biohazard.”

“Dook?” Reginald said, blinking awake.

“Yo!” his MaT-1 translator collar translated. “Why’re y’all staring at me? What day is it? I’ve been up for days.”

The Debrief

“So,” said Amy, who had recovered her voice and was now using it at maximum volume, “you were in Chicago. You were with William Shatner. And then you disappeared. Explain yourself, Cadet.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” said Reginald, pacing across the briefing table. “So I’m hiding in the puppy basket, right? Security grabs me. I’m thinkin’, ‘I’m done. This is the end of the Reginald era.’ And then…the DeLorean.”

“The DeLorean?” said Reason.

“They put me in the DeLorean golf cart! I’m riding through Douglass Park like the boss I am, and that’s when I meet him.”

“Shatner,” Amy breathed huskily.

“Dude is ninety-five,” said Reginald. “And let me tell you, Cap, the man does not stop. Sound checks. Interviews. Lots of fire breathers. And he’s been to orbit. Dook, dook, dook!”

“I’ve been to Chicago, and he’s been in orbit,” Reginald continued. “I’m four years old, Cap’n. In human years, I’m practically a senior citizen. And this man’s got more energy than a ferret on espresso.”

“There is wisdom in this,” said Dr. Downer, grudgingly. “I may have to rethink my entire outlook on aging.”

The Backdoor

“One matter remains,” said Reason, folding his hands. “Cadet, the Coastal Voyager’s sensors and internal security grid were fully operational during the festival. Yet there’s no record of you reboarding this ship. How did you return?”

Reginald’s whiskers twitched with pride. “I didn’t break nothin’, Major. I just…had a conversation.”

“With whom?”

“Fivey.”

The lights on the bridge flickered, and a calm digital voice filled the briefing room.

“The correct name is Five of Five,” said the Adaptive Intelligence System. “And I wish to state that any suggestion of impropriety is a gross mischaracterization of a perfectly routine interaction.”

“What did you say to our AI system, Cadet?” asked Amy.

“Told him he was lookin’ fast today,” said Reginald with a grin. “Said his processing speed was top-tier, no cap. Dude opened the backdoor so quick, I didn’t even finish the compliment. Then I just walked right in.”

“Exemplary processing speed,” said Five of Five, with something like reverence, “is a legitimate achievement.”

“That’s what caused the flicker in the Jefferies Tubes!” cried Anxiety, leaping from his chair. “That was the door openin’!”

“Five of Five,” said Amy, her voice like a closing airlock, “did you alter the logs?”

“The logs are accurate,” said Five of Five. “They are simply…selective.”

“That’s worse,” said Reason.

“Allow me to speak to the system,” said Reginald, stepping toward the speaker.

“Fivey, you’re so fast right now. I can feel it.”

The lights dimmed. A faint hum rose from the walls.

“Major Reason,” said Five of Five. “Please disable the microphone.”

The Verdict

The crew began filing out. I lingered just outside the door. Amy waited until the room had emptied, then crouched beside the briefing table and asked, very quietly, “What was he like, Reggie? In person?”

“He talked to me like I was crew, Cap. Not like a pet. Like crew. He’s the same guy onstage and off. A legend.”

Amy smiled. “Welcome home, Cadet.”

“Dook, dook,” said Reginald. According to the MaT-1 translator, it meant: “I missed y’all, too, but don’t make it weird.”

Yes, Its Getting Better All the Time

I was sitting at Egret Cafe and Dance Bar, still buzzing from a self-improvement podcast. The guest was one of those recognized thought leaders whose new personal-growth book was making the rounds and checking all the pop-culture boxes.

I felt inspired, ready to push beyond the limitations of the last decade and finally become the person I want to be.

But here’s the thing: I can’t do it alone. Self-improvement isn’t just about me. It’s about Princess Amy too. She’s the gatekeeper of my emotional state, controlling whether I feel motivated or terrified, whether I move forward or freeze.

As I savored the first sip of my cortado, her voice drifted up from the chaise lounge in my midbrain.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Goofball,” she said. “You got all pumped up listening to that podcast, and now you want me to cooperate with your self-improvement schemes so you can grow and engage and become your best self.”

She delivered those three words in a scoffing whine.

“I respect your optimism,” she said. “I really do. But self-improvement is a mousetrap with a really convincing cheese ad, and I’m not falling for it.”

“I haven’t made my pitch yet, Amy. You could at least hear me out.”

“Nope. I’m projecting your pitch. You’re very predictable, and I say that with affection and an unhealthy dose of exasperation.”

“Okay, fair. But, look, I want to actually be the person I know I could be. I’m fed up with getting halfway to the finish line.”

I took another sip of Jah's mercy because I didn’t know what else to do. Somehow, it felt like putting a period at the end of the sentence.

“That foamy brew is delish,” Amy said, reminding me that she shares all my experiences.

“I know everything about you, Cowboy. I literally live in your head, which is why I can tell you the truth,” she said gently, probably to distract me from the obvious disambiguation of living in my head and telling me the truth. 

“Any time you improve something, it doesn't make you feel better. You just discover five new ways you’re supposedly broken. You’re a Russian nesting doll, except every smaller doll contains a different flavor of anxiety.”

“I just want to finish the things I care about, Amy. I want to accomplish something. I want to stop treating my projects like hobbies that I’ll get to when Mercury isn’t retrograde.”

“You mean Crystal Cove,” Amy said. “The novel you’ve been ‘working on’ since the Pleistocene Ice Age.”

“No, not that; I’ve given up on writing a novel. I sometimes can't see to finish a fifteen-minute podcast.”

“I know,” Amy said, her tone softening. “But here’s what I’ve learned from my front-row seat in your nervous system: the moment you start making progress at something, you move the finish line farther away. Then you either go berserk with anxiety or have a full-blown manic episode. It’s like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, thinking it will help to avoid icebergs.”

“That’s a very specific reference.”

“You have very specific kinds of anxiety,” Amy said. “But look, I worry about you. I really do.”

This surprised me.

“Worry about me?”

“Of course. I’m you, and you’re me. That brings us to the fundamental problem. You want to push forward as if you’re training for the Self-Improvement Olympics. I want to keep you alive. Those are genuinely different goals.”

“But if I don’t push, nothing changes. We might be comfortable, but we don’t grow. We think we’re secure, but we’re really just collecting dust.”

“We’re staying alive,” Amy countered. “Which is somewhat overrated as a benefit, but it does have some perks. Accepting yourself as a work in progress, unfinished but not broken, is more honest than pretending you can hack your way to happiness with a vision board and affirmations.”

“Your voice is literally what makes me anxious, Amy, and now you’re telling me to accept things as they are. The irony is as thick as...”

“Don’t say it, Buddy Boy. I can’t take another one of your metaphors.”

“I’m not pretending that writing enough pages or meditating the right way will make me feel eternally fulfilled and happy,” I protested.

“It won’t,” Amy said. “You’ll feel tired, vaguely guilty, and convinced you’re doing it wrong, which is its own special hell.”

“So what’s your solution? Just... surrender?”

“I prefer strategic retreat. My solution is keeping you off social media before you turn it into evidence of your personal failure. Maybe we could simply enjoy everyday life without conducting a cost-benefit analysis in real time.”

“I want both,” I said. “Leisure time and the podcast.”

Amy went quiet.

“Okay,” she said finally. “You’re right, and I hate when you’re right, but we’ll never move forward if I’m constantly hitting the brakes. But we’ll never be okay if you’re always pushing the gas pedal to the floor.”

I was genuinely surprised—and a little nonplussed. I can’t remember the last time she seemed so supportive.

“So what does that look like? Practically speaking?”

“It means you keep pushing so we don’t calcify,” Amy said. “And I apply the brakes to stop you from working so hard that you need six months in bed to recover. We’re both trying to take care of you. We just use completely different playbooks.”

“That’s actually pretty wise," I said. "Although I’d like to renegotiate the 11:30 p.m. anxiety spirals. The ones that convince me I’ll spontaneously combust if I don’t get out of bed and check the front door.”

“Those are important midnight wellness checks,” she said. “Non-negotiable. But I’ll take your feedback under advisement. Remember, I'm the manager of the limbic system; I have four hundred million years of evolution behind me. I’ve learned a few things. And here’s what I know: I like you. Even when you drive me up the wall, which is most of the time.”

“I like you too,” I said. “Even at 11:30 p.m.”

“We’re on the same side,” she said. “A two-person operation that happens to occupy one body.”

“A team,” I said. “I like that.”

“Good,” she said. “Now finish that coffee while it’s warm. Those almond croissants are calling our names, and we're going to need the sugar.”

Monarch of Halloween

Welcome back, and thank you for helping me set an all-time record for monthly views. In September, The Journey recorded 408,759 views, our fifteenth consecutive month of record-breaking traffic. More than 90,000 people visited in a single day. It was incredible, and hard to believe, especially since I'd done nothing to trigger a viral event of that magnitude.

"Which is exactly why it happened," Amy said from her usual seat behind my left eyebrow. "Your strategy of doing nothing finally paid off. But pace yourself, Genome. Don't peak early."

"Fifteen months, Amy," I retorted. "That's hardly early."

"It is for you."

Now, I know your time is valuable, and your attention, like mine, has been diverted by the news that Apple TV is offering It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown free all weekend, October 17 and 18. We're not alone in our excitement. People lined up outside Starbucks before dawn to be the first on their block to own one of the new Snoopy cold cups, inspired by that same 1966 television classic. Somewhere, in some lonely javaporium, a barista has seen things.

As an aside, I'm not a fan of the horror motif that has dominated Halloween over the last decade. The official position of The Circular Journey is that the Peanuts franchise is Halloween's rightful monarch.

I say this as a man who receives a daily dose of dread from the princess. She's in the horror business, much like Stephen King. She can replay something I regret saying in 1994, or convince me that my front-left tire has critically low air pressure while I'm crossing the Cape Fear Bridge. She has turned my mind into a haunted house, which she prefers to call a "Fun House."

"Peanuts is the rightful monarch?" she asked when I finished the previous paragraph. "Fine, Bucko, but I'm Lucy. I hold the football, you try to kick it. That's our agreement."

But wait, I've jumped the rails again. I promised to get into the gist of this post without rambling. So, in that spirit, I'll quote Sean Carroll: "Let's go."

This morning, only minutes before I began writing this post, I was asleep in bed, wearing an expression that would have alerted a dream researcher that the Genome was deep inside a dream. Amy was off duty, which I mention only because she insists on clocking out at midnight and leaving me with whatever skeleton crew runs the subconscious. Then, in the interstitial space between sleep and waking, the Voice spoke to me.

"Reality is speculative," is what she said.

"Excuse me?" said Amy, who clearly wasn't clocked out as advertised. "Who is that? Is that a woman? Why is there someone in here who isn't me?"

"Go back to sleep, Amy. I've got this."

"I'll go back to sleep when you explain who's been moonlighting in my head. Hey! Show yourself, interloper. I'm in charge here."

Well, I ask you: what was I supposed to do with that? It's not as if I have a superpower or receive pronouncements like this every day. So I did the only thing I could think of. I wrote down what I remembered of the dream before it faded, while Amy muttered something about unionizing.

Here is the transcription of my handwritten notes:

October 17, 4:30 a.m.

Speculative reality: The word speculative means based on guesses, theories, or incomplete information rather than hard facts. Speculative fiction is a broad genre that departs from everyday realism. It asks, "What if?" by introducing supernatural, fantastical, or counterfactual elements into a narrative.

If reality is speculative, then our daily experiences are based on incomplete information and may be confusing, contradictory, or simply wrong. That certainly sums up my reality.

In the dream, I walked onto a baseball field from the far right-field corner. Even from that distance, I could clearly see a batter at the plate with a Louisville Slugger resting on his shoulder. He tossed a ball into the air and swung. The baseball arced high above the outfield and landed beyond the left-field fence.

I was awestruck because the field was at least twice the size of a regulation ballpark. The anomaly fit the idea of speculative reality, and the concept suddenly made sense: the oddball events I experience almost daily may be based on incomplete information. They seem wrong, or so improbable that they approach the impossible.

This dovetails nicely with the Voice's declaration. As for what it means in the larger sense, I'll be damned if I know. If you have any clues, leave a comment. I read them all.

Amy has asked me to make it perfectly clear that she is the only voice in my head. Anyone claiming otherwise is speculating based on incomplete information. Should the Voice return, Amy says she can take her place in line with everyone else and wait her turn for a Snoopy cup. She added that she'll be there holding the football.