Mindfleet Mission Report: Shatner's Puppy

A Mindfleet Mission Report
Stardate 2026.265

Three days ago, FMS Coastal Voyager was in geosynchronous orbit above Douglass Park in Chicago. The promotions board had agreed to reschedule Captain Amy's hearing, not because I was especially diplomatic, but because Captain Amy was annoyingly persistent. Amy was already on the surface, anxious to connect with her hero, William Shatner.

I was left in command of the bridge. Everything that could go wrong was about to do exactly that.

"Status report," I requested, trying to get comfortable in the command chair. The bridge felt entirely different without Amy’s theatrical presence dominating every cubic meter.

"Away team has successfully transported," confirmed Major Reason from his science station. "Captain Amy and three fleet officers are approaching the VIP meet-and-greet. No complications.”

"Famous last words," muttered Chief Engineer Anxiety from the engine room. "Give it time, Ambassador. Something always goes wrong when the Captain leaves the ship.”

"Anxiety's concern is statistically unfounded," Reason countered. "We currently have a 67% success rate for away missions under Captain Amy."

"That's a 33% failure rate," Dr. Downer interjected from her clinic. “Medical Bay is prepped for trauma, injury, and whatever's about to explode in Chicago.”

Lieutenant Joy monitored communications. "Away team is in position. Captain Amy's personal communicator is... very excited.”

Through her speaker, Amy's voice crackled: “Shatner’s Shag Shack dressing room is exactly as specified. Actual shag carpeting! I may weep.”

"There's also an unidentified signal in the comm channel," Joy added. "Some kind of anomaly.”

"Captain is entering the meet-and-greet," said Major Reason. "Shatner's on stage, checking the sound equipment. Visual contact is imminent.”

Through the comm: Amy's sharp intake of breath. Then, reverently: "He's... magnificent. His stage presence. It's everything I've ever— does anyone have a tissue?“

Static cracked through the channel followed by Amy's quivering, almost blubbering voice.

"I'm synchronizing our neural patterns, demonstrating the kinship we share as commanders and—“

“Captain!" Reason interrupted sharply, "What exactly are you transmitting?”

"Emotional affirmation. Letting him know I understand the burden of leadership..."

"Oh no," Anxiety groaned. "She's doing that thing. That emotional synchronization thing. This is not good.”

Major Reason announced, “She's activating his emotional resonance patterns. Broadcasting directly to Shatner's amygdala.”

Joy's console erupted. "Shatner's stress hormones are spiking!"

Through the comm, Shatner's voice cracked with confusion: "What is that? Why do I suddenly feel like I'm about to miss a crucial starship maneuver?”

"Captain," I said carefully, "dial it back.”

"Negative," Amy snapped. "I'm close to parity. He's responding.”

Shatner was now pacing on stage like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.

"This is unprecedented," Reason muttered. "She's causing interference in William Shatner's emotional state.”

Suddenly, Cadet Reginald’s MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System bled through Joy’s comms.

"Yo, this is genius," Reginald whispered. “Imma be so deep in these puppy layers, nobody gonna find me. Peak Reginald energy right here.”

"There's a ferret in here!" someone shouted. "There's a ferret in the puppy basket!”

Alarms shrieked. Festival security converged.

"Away team!" I called. "Emergency evacuation! Transport authorization granted!”

Chaos erupted: "Acknowledged!" Amy yelled. "Moving to beam-up location!”

"Wait, ya’ll!" Reginald panicked. "I'm still in the basket! I'm tangled with the puppies! I got puppy breath all up in my translator!”

"Reginald, where are you?" Joy called.

“In the basket with adoptable puppies in Shatner’s Shag hangout! Security be comin’ now!”

"Captain!" I called. "Reginald is in Shatner’s dressing room. Delay transport!”

"Negative, Ambassador." Amy's voice was tight and pained. "Perimeter's locked down. If we don't evacuate now, we're detained.”

"But Reginald—“

"Is a highly resourceful ferret," Amy clipped. "Transport the away team. Now.”

The transporter engaged. A flash of light over Douglass Park, and the away team materialized. Reginald was not among them.

The bridge fell silent.

"Status," I finally said.

"Away team accounted for," Reason reported quietly, "except Cadet Reginald.”

"This is bad," Anxiety said in his thick Scottish accent. "We left the wee beastie behind. Captain Amy is going to be in deep—“

“Don’t say it; I’m aware," came Amy's voice as she strode onto the bridge, hair disheveled, mascara running down her face like a deranged clown, her whole countenance a knot of devastation and defiance. "We had no choice. The perimeter was sealed.”

"Cadet Reginald's signal is still transmitting," Reason reported. “He's escaped security and moving through the festival at high velocity.”

Through the open comm, Reginald's escape soundtrack played:

"Got security on my tail. These humans don't understand ferret physics; I'm going under the bleachers, they're going over, perfect tactical divergence! DOOK!”

"Reginald!" Joy called. "Where are you heading?”

“Don’t know, but I'm gettin’ there fast! I can see Shatner on stage, and I think we done broke his brain, y’all!"

Amy turned immediately toward the transporter room. "We're going back.”

"Captain," I said carefully, "Chicago authorities are on high alert. Another transport operation will—“

"Confirm we're serious about retrieving our crew member," Amy finished. "We are not leaving Cadet Reginald behind. That ferret is one of us.”

She turned to Reason. "Localize his signal, Major. We need precise coordinates.”

“Way ahead of you," Reason said. "But sending an away team into an active police perimeter risks escalation. May I suggest a covert extraction?”

Amy looked directly at me. An unspoken acknowledgment passed between us; we'd already broken the Prime Directive three times over.

"The Ambassador is going down," Amy said. “Prepare the transporter. Tell Reginald rescue is on its way."

I stood from the chair. "I'm going to get our ferret back,” I said weakly, heading for the transporter room, with Amy's words echoing in my head: the Ambassador is going down, down, down.

Amy came to see me off, her jaw set. "Bring him back, Ambassador.”

“That is the plan," I replied in an undiplomatic tone. I didn’t like the plan and didn’t care who knew it.

Major Reason's voice chimed in: "Coordinates locked. Reginald's signal is highly mobile. You're going in hot, Ambassador.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.

Through the comm, Reginald's voice breathed: “...deeper in the park now; security’s circlin’, sirens wailin’. DOOK—it’sa gettin’ real!"

I looked at Reason through the viewport. He nodded.

"Energizing," he said.

The platform hummed beneath my feet.

Captain's Log: Stardate 2026.265

Mission status: Cadet Reginald remains stranded in Chicago, pursued by festival security. The Ambassador has just been transported to Douglass Park for a rescue operation.

Stand by.

Another Day In Paradise

Castle Street basked in the glow of a golden late summer morning. The storm that, two hours ago, had raged through the parks, along the riverwalk, and into the downtown business district was only a memory. In the aftermath, the air was cool and sweet, and the damp earth released a healing fragrance. 

The city, bathed in the clear light of an early summer morning, was an earthly paradise. The skies were blue, the river shone, squirrels raced about the parks with carefree abandon, and as far as the eye could see, pedestrians tootled along behind happy, carefree dogs. 

Scattered thunderstorms might be raging elsewhere, but in the downtown districts, there was the peace that passeth all understanding, that perfect unruffled peace that comes only to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it. 

Consoled by the still, dry atmosphere inside the Egret Cafe and Dance Bar and refreshed by the steaming contents of a china cup that read, I’d rather be surfing, I had achieved a Zen-like repose at a table near the windows but not too near the door. 

I took a deep breath and leaned back against the cushions, and the mingled voices around me began to quiet the sounds of the retreating storm. The sound of residual rainwater coursing through downspouts had replaced the drone of soft, gentle rain on the roof.

Island Irv, who was telling me all about his recent trip to the Sunshine State, is not someone you expect to leap from chairs, but suddenly and without warning, he managed a maneuver that almost made it look like a leap. 

Let me make it perfectly clear for those of you who may be new to these pages that the mothers of Shady Grove teach their sons that all exhibitions of emotion are nothing more than rannygazoo, without substance or staying power; we maintain our poise even in the presence of thunderstorms and earthquakes. 

Although conscious of a certain uneasiness when Irv shot ceilingward, I was determined to remain calm. Intending to stay in full control, I took a deep breath and, unfortunately, I exhaled so sharply that a man at the next table who was eating a carrot-and-walnut muffin stabbed himself in the chin with his fork. 

I didn’t like the look that crossed his face, but then I didn't care much for it even before his chin began bleeding. His hands clenched in fists of rage, as I believe the old saying goes. 

I doubt that he'd had a Shady Grove upbringing, but even if he had, it was obvious that mother was forgotten for the nonce, and even great-aunts, those supreme enforcers of proper behavior, were not remembered. 

I realized that a word in time might provide healing balm, and I searched the memory banks for some gag or saw that would soothe the savage beast and prevent a total brannigan. No need for him to punch the weasel, I reasoned.

“How's the weather on your end of the coast?" I said. "Exceptionally clement, I hope."

Not one of my better gags, but I had precious little time to come up with something. We will never know if the words would have brought calm because the man left the cafe without finishing his cappuccino and was last seen heading up Castle Street toward 8th Avenue.

"What about you?" I said to Irv.

"Oh, me?" he said. "I didn't realize my coffee was so hot. I burned my tongue."

"Is that all?" I said. "I thought you'd forgotten to text your wife or something equally as rotten."

"It hurt," he said.

And I'm sure it did hurt, but it seemed to be excessive animation for so little cause. But that's life on the Carolina coast for you. One never knows when the next storm is going to come sashaying around to see what it can get into.

All in all, I suppose it's to be expected from another day in paradise.

Here's wishing you a mild and joyous end of summer and a very pleasant slide into holiday season. Happy summer, my friends. Thank you for supporting The Circular Journey with your time and attention. Don't forget to leave a comment.

PS -- I borrowed that phrasing about growing up in Shady Grove from P.G. Wodehouse, who the author of Proverbs must have had in mind when he wrote: "a word fitly spoken and in due season is like apples of gold in settings of silver." 

Mindfleet: Riot Fest 2026

I approached the captain's chair with the careful deliberation of someone bearing bad news to a Captain who customarily responds to bad news by raising her voice by several decibels.

"Captain," I began, "regarding your request to have the Coastal Voyager assigned to monitor the Riot Fest in Chicago...“

"Approved," Amy interrupted, not bothering to look up from her console. "Excellent work, Ambassador. I knew you had influence.” 

"Not quite, ” I said. "There's a scheduling conflict.“ 

"A scheduling conflict?" Amy swiveled her chair around to face me, her eyes snapped upward with the precision of a tactical targeting system.

"Riot Fest 2026 opens September 18th, Ambassador. The greatest Starfleet captain in all of space exploration will be headlining with his heavy metal rock band. Surely there is no conflict.”

“But you see, the promotions review board meets September 18th through the 22nd," I explained. “Your presence is required for the full duration. You can’t be in both places simultaneously.”

The silence that followed was the kind that happens when a fundamental law of the universe is in question. Major Reason looked up from his science station. Lieutenant Joy's fingers hovered motionless above her communications array. Chief Engineer Anxiety was heard catching his breath in his quarters below decks.

"Cannot?" Amy said quietly. The word hung in the air like a photon torpedo waiting for detonation. "Ambassador, you misspoke, because I assure you, I will.”

"Captain, the logistics—“

"Are not my concern." Amy rose from her command chair with theatrical authority. "You will contact Mindfleet Command and inform them that Captain Amy requires the promotions review board to reschedule their proceedings.”

“Amy—"

"Admiral Amy to you, Ambassador,” she corrected, her eyes gleaming with authority.

Major Reason adjusted his uniform with the resigned acceptance of a man who had witnessed this particular form of stubbornness many times before. "Captain, if I may interject with a mathematical improbability—“

"No," said Amy. "You may not.” Then, addressing me again: “Ambassador, you have forty-eight hours to resolve this scheduling matter. Dismissed.”

The next morning, I arrived on the bridge to find the captain's chair unoccupied. Lieutenant Joy and Major Reason were gathered around a poster draped across the captain's console.

The image was unmistakable: William Shatner, posed heroically with an electric guitar, his expression suggesting he had just discovered the secret to the universe and found it to be absolutely heavy metal.

"Well," said Major Reason, his eyebrows ascending toward an Olympic altitude, “you don’t see this every day.”

The bridge doors hissed open. Captain Amy stepped onto the bridge. "Where did that come from?" she whispered.

“It has to be the work of Cadet Reginald,” Lieutenant Joy replied. “That ferret will steal anything with bright neon colors. I still haven’t found my sparkly boot laces.”

Before anyone could respond, Joy's communications console chimed with an all-hands alert. She rushed to the station, and her fingers flew across the interface with practiced urgency.

"Captain, I'm receiving a priority broadcast feed from a Chicago television station," she reported. "It's routing through my main coms channel. That shouldn't be possible...“

The view-screen blazed to life.

A Chicago news anchor appeared, reporting on the upcoming Riot Fest. But the images behind her held everyone's attention: William Shatner being interviewed about his heavy metal band debut.

"—unprecedented in festival history," the anchor was saying. "Riot Fest founder Mike Petryshyn claims they've been trying to book William Shatner for seventeen years. The performer's rider is... extraordinary.”

The broadcast cut to a list, displayed with apparent humor:

—Fire breathers. Many of them.
—A Montreal Canadiens jersey signed by John Stamos
—An assortment of adoptable puppies from a reputable local nonprofit animal rescue

Amy's hand rose to her mouth. Her eyes were glistening. “Listen up, people! This is not a drill," she announced, her voice quivering and her eyes moist: "Shatner himself has stated: 'I've always believed that music, like space, is about exploration.’ And Riot Fest is exactly the kind of place where anything can happen."

"Captain?" Joy ventured carefully. "I'm not sure how this broadcast is reaching us, or why it's routed through my comms channel, but—“

The answer came from the ventilation grate near the starboard wall. A small ferret emerged, his miniature officer's cap dipped strategically over his right eye. The MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System around his neck glowed with activity.

"Yo, Cap," Cadet Reginald's voice crackled through the speaker. “That poster is straight fact. The TV feed is just me droppin' some knowledge through Five of Five's channels. Dude's ego is huge, but his firewall is... let's say 'negotiable' when you know the right frequencies, ya feel me?”

Major Reason's eyebrow ascended to previously unknown altitudes. "Cadet Reginald. You penetrated the Adaptive Intelligence system's security architecture?”

"Nah, nah, nah," Reginald's translator rendered his response with casual confidence. "I didn't penetrate nothin', Major. I just... collaborated. Fivey likes to show off his processin' speed. No harm, no foul.”

I could see the calculations behind Amy’s eyes, the same process I'd witnessed before, when she was determining whether the impossible was merely a suggestion.

“He’s fronting his very own heavy metal band.” She said in a voice filled with awe.

"Captain," Major Reason said carefully, "I must inform you that the Promotions Review Board meets September 18th through 22nd. The temporal overlap remains—“

"Fire breathers," Amy interrupted, still staring at the screen. "His rider includes fire breathers. Many of them.”

"Yes, Captain, but—“

"And adoptable puppies."

"Captain, if I might redirect your attention to the scheduling—"

"Adoptable puppies," Amy said softly. "There will be adoptable puppies backstage.”

She turned to face me again, and her expression was something I had never quite seen before and hoped to never see again.

"Ambassador," she said, "I will be attending Riot Fest on September 20th. The Coastal Voyager will be there. The entire crew will document this moment for posterity.”

"But the promotions review—“

"Will accommodate my schedule," she finished. "You will tell Mindfleet Command that Captain Amy intends to be in Chicago on September 20th. You will tell them to reschedule the review. And you will tell them that William Shatner—William Shatner—is performing live heavy metal at a rock festival, and I will not miss it.”

She looked directly at me. "Do you understand, Ambassador?"

"I'll contact Mindfleet Command," I said quietly.

"Thank you," said Amy, turning back to stare at the viewscreen, where Shatner's image continued its loop.

From the ventilation shaft, Cadet Reginald's translator crackled: “Yo, that's what I call a power move, Cap. Now, I'm headin' straight for the puppy hookup. Once I'm in the rescue squad rotation, I'm slidin' backstage with the Shatner all day. Diplomatic infiltration at its finest, ya heard? Shatner don't even know what's rollin' up on him. Dook! Reginald out!"

I looked at the Captain. She was looking at me. "Ambassador," she said, "Explain to Cadet Reginald that the Prime Directive exists to prevent ferrets from masquerading as rescue puppies. I will not be reassigned because a ferret violated the Non-Interference Doctrine. Make. That. Clear."

Major Reason looked at me. "Ambassador, I must inform you that you have just been outmaneuvered by a small mustelid."

“I’m aware," I said.

“I will note this in my report."

"Of course you will."

Author's Supplemental:

Riot Fest 2026 runs September 18–20 at Chicago's Douglass Park. William Shatner's debut performance with The *uckers is scheduled for Sunday, September 20th. The festival's roster includes Twenty One Pilots, Alanis Morissette, Morrissey, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello & The Imposters, Pixies, Sex Pistols, Patti Smith, and Nas, among more than 100 artists.

The heavy metal awaits.

RJ Decker Rides Again

"Genome," Amy said, from somewhere deep in my brain, near my left ear. There was something different in her voice. Not the usual imperious sniff. Something sweeter, closer to caring. "Sit down. Put the coffee away. This is not a casual tête-à-tête."

"I'm already sitting."

"Sit down further."

I knew something was different, not wrong exactly; maybe something was right for a change. It was disorienting. Amy doesn't do sweet. She does withering commentary and the occasional threat to leave me for a more competent host brain. This new tone felt like watching a hurricane pause to hold a door open for you.

So when she went quiet and serious, I set my mug down and gave her my full attention, the way you'd give full attention to a smoke detector that's just started blaring at 3 a.m.

"I have the RJ Decker schedule," she said. "The real one. Not a rumor from a man at a bar who smells like Jamaican rum. Not a Facebook post from a restaurant that closed for lunch. The actual, published, filed-with-the-city, printed-in-WWAY-News schedule."

I felt the way archaeologists must feel when they finally find the tomb instead of another sandal.

The Target

"Next Tuesday," she began reading the schedule, in the clipped, official tone of someone about to announce a lottery winner, "September 15th, from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., RJ Decker is filming exterior and interior house scenes on South Churchill Drive. Two cast members. Eighty-five crew members. Fifty extras. That is not a skeleton crew. That is a small, well-funded army descending on a residential neighborhood with the confidence of people who have already filed all the correct paperwork."

She gave me a look and waited for my reply, but I was still busy doing the math on eighty-five crew members and wondering if any of them needed a very enthusiastic, if professionally unqualified, assistant.

"Eighty-five crew members, Genome," Amy said. "Do you understand what that means?"

"It means a lot of people will ask me to move."

"It means we cannot possibly fail. Even you, with your singular gift for wandering into the wrong parking lot and interviewing a production assistant's dumpster, cannot miss eighty-five people and fifty extras standing around a house on Churchill Drive. This is the easiest assignment we have ever been given. This is a lay-up. This is Amy handing you the ball directly under the basket and stepping back so you can dunk it."

"I've never dunked anything in my life."

"Exactly my point."

"Maybe a few doughnuts."

"That," she said, "is genuinely the most athletic thing about you, and I say that with love."

The Logistics

I'll admit Amy did her homework, and by "Amy did her homework" I mean I read the article twice, and she supervised, pacing back and forth behind my eyeballs and occasionally tapping an imaginary clipboard.

Equipment parking runs along Churchill between Gillette and Knightsbridge, and along Knollwood Road between Churchill and Gillette, which is, Amy points out, an unusually generous amount of real estate for a production to hand a wandering blogger a map to.

Five police officers are scheduled to manage traffic for the full stretch of the day, which is either five more officers than my track record deserves or exactly the right number to keep me on the correct side of a barricade. A generator and lighting rig are planned for the equipment area, though the paperwork is very clear: there are no special effects. Nobody is blowing anything up on Churchill Drive next Tuesday, which, frankly, takes some of the pressure off, since "things exploded" has never once been the reason one of my outings went sideways. 

That honor belongs entirely to me.

If Tuesday gets rained out, the city's backup dates are Wednesday the 16th and Thursday the 17th. Prep happens the day before filming, and wrap activities are scheduled for the day after, which means this isn't a single, fragile window; we actually have three days of potential filming. This is a production with a cushion, a contingency plan, and, apparently, more organizational competence than I have ever brought to any Tuesday in memory, including the Tuesdays when I had nothing else planned at all.

Amy's Pep Talk, Such As It Is

"I need you to understand something," Amy said, and here her voice took on the tone she usually reserves for warning me about parallel parking. "We have chased ferrets. We have interviewed dumpsters. We have driven to Half Hell, twice, in one afternoon, which I remind you is a geographic and emotional impossibility that you somehow achieved. We have been mistaken for civilians, escorted, redirected, and once handed a popsicle out of what I can only assume was pity."

"The popsicle was kindness, Amy."

"The popsicle was a witness statement waiting to happen. My point is this: none of that was a real opportunity, but this is a real opportunity. A confirmed address. A confirmed time. A confirmed eighty-five human beings who cannot all hide from you at once, short of some kind of elaborate flash mob dispersal drill they haven't budgeted for."

Genome, if you find a way to screw up Churchill Drive, I want you to know that I will not be riding along in your limbic system for a while. I will be finding somewhere quieter to live. Possibly in a Cocker Spaniel's head. I'm not saying I'll vacate your consciousness permanently; I'm only saying maybe."

"That's dark, Amy, even for you."

"I contain multitudes. Also a very detailed exit strategy."

"If you must get away for a bit, you couldn't do better than inside a Cocker Spaniel's brain. I spent a good deal of my own formative years inside one."

The Plan, Such As It Is

"Alright," she said, "we know what we're doing. There shouldn't be any hiccups. Have any questions?"

I shook my head vigorously but not with any real certainty; I thought it best to save my questions for Tuesday.

"Here's what we will NOT do, under any circumstances: Park in the equipment zone. Wander into the Independence Mall base camp pretending to be an associate producer. Ask anyone if Scott Speedman is in the building." (I've been told, repeatedly, that this question does not land the way I want it to. I remain convinced it's a delivery issue.)

"We arrive early," Amy said. "We stay outside the barricades. We are polite to the police officers, all five of them, and you do not, under any circumstances, try the 'act like you belong here' trick again."

"That trick worked at The Waterfront."

"That trick worked once, Genome, the way a coin lands on its edge once in a thousand flips. We are not basing a strategy on the coin's edge. We are especially not basing a strategy on the coin's edge when the coin in question is you."

She's right, though I'd rather eat a magic 8-ball than admit it to her directly. This is, by any honest measure, the best-documented, most logistically generous opportunity The Circular Journey has ever had. A confirmed address. A confirmed army of eighty-five. Barricades that exist specifically to tell me where to stand instead of where I've already wandered.

Of course, we know from bitter, well-documented experience that things never work out as planned. History is not on our side. Half Hell is not on our side. The city of Wilmington's excellent record-keeping is on our side, which is new, and frankly a little suspicious.

So later this week, I'll let you know how it all goes down. I just hope it doesn't turn out to be another cautionary tale. Wish us luck, and if you live anywhere near Knollwood and Hillsboro next Tuesday, save me a spot on the curb. Preferably one with a clear sightline and no dumpsters to block the view.

The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning; if, like me, you consider early to be relative. I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only someone from the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line, feeling that if one cup was good, another would be even better.

"Ho!" he said in the manner of an English copper. I didn't like it. The tone was all wrong. "Swilling cocktails, eh?" he said.

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning'?"

"Out on the tiles to all hours?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure of the word's meaning, but it sounds good, and I've heard it used in similar circumstances.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said, correcting my posture and straightening the gig line of my shirt to show that I was above all his jibber-jabber. "And I look forward to hearing the explanation. I'm sure it will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out carousing, getting home just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood. That's what I mean, Mr. Hoitie-Toitie."

This remark got me hotted up to near incandescent. The nerve! The impertinence! Again, not sure of the definition, but I'm pretty sure it's in the neighborhood of my meaning.

"It could scarcely have been later than two when I got home, and I was seeing an old friend off to spend the holiday in the Catskills." And I'm sure I said it with enough topspin to qualify for hauteur, if that's the word.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked, giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish," I said, "and we don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish, and I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something from the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy. That's why I'm in line."

He seemed to consider this, but after a few seconds, his inward gaze looked out again and settled near the lower portions of my facial map. His expression was that of someone who has found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"What?" I said, passing a hand across my face.

"You don't wear a beard," he said in the tone of an accusation.

"No, I don't wear a beard, and I'm happy about it. Too many beards are taking up space in the world. I haven't seen so many beavers since the days of Edward the Confessor."

"Ho!" he said. "Real men wear beards, and your face would benefit from a mustache as well."

"I wore a mustache for years when younger," I said, "and it looked horrible, much like a soup stain."

"What does Ms. Wonder think of it?" he said.

"Of what? My shaving?"

"I'm sure a bit of facial hair would provide much-needed relief to someone who spends more than a few minutes in your presence."

"What does it matter what others think?" I said, and I felt the conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"That's good. She doesn't like it," he said. "You'll have to grow some hair. Take a few days off and get away is my advice. You'll probably look like Rasputin until the stuff grows in."

"I will not stop shaving, and I'm finished with this conversation.  J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me. The barista is waiting for your order.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath: power and balance to be ready for whatever life brings my way. Second breath: to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath: to recognize that there is more good than bad in the present moment.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that on your chin?"

But if memory serves, this is where you came in, and I don't want to be a bore. Thank you for joining me today; wishing you sweetness and light.