Where is Jenna Elfman

The faint glow of dawn barely penetrated the blinds, but my eyes were wide open, a strange mix of disbelief and amusement bubbling within me. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, its screen a jarring beacon in the dim room, and pulled up my dream journal app. This one, I knew instantly, was too good—too utterly absurd—to let slip away with the morning fog.

Before I'd typed the first word, I received the latest installment of what I shall from now on call "The Voice." The term surely needs no explanation for regular readers, but newcomers may benefit by knowing I'm often greeted upon first waking by voices in my mind; voices that have no discernible rhyme or reason. 

This morning, The Voice said, "Where is Jenna Elfman?" I know! That's all there was. It usually happens that way, one short sentence and then nothing. If my life gets any more entertaining, I may reconsider selling the rights to the theater production company that keeps pleading with my agent.

Well, as you might well imagine, given the production quality of The Voice, added to the completely ridiculous storyline of the dream, I had to get out of bed at 3:15 AM EST and record every detail while it was still fresh in my mind.

For my European audience, 3:15 AM corresponds to 81.9 on the Celsius scale.

Even in my half-awake state, the details remained vivid. I began this blog episode with a self-satisfied smile playing on my lips because I was sure this one would be the one to take home to Ma. 

The Pacific sun glinted off the waves around Catalina Island, a typical Southern California day, but aboard the Coast Guard cutter Guardian, the mood was anything but typical. Today was THE day. After months of hushed development, a sleek, custom-built Apple tablet was finally going to be put through its paces. 

This wasn't just any iPad; this was a device forged at the explicit request of the U.S. Coast Guard, boasting an onboard Wi-Fi system fortified with VPN security—a secure lifeline for real-time data in the unpredictable maritime environment.

Lieutenant Commander Eva Rostova, the lead liaison for the project, ran a hand over the tablet's smooth casing. "Alright, team," she announced, "This is it. Remember, this device is designed to integrate seamlessly with our new secure comms array." 

As she walked away from the desk, she nodded to an older man standing at the front of a small gathering of officers and media correspondents. "Captain Davies, you have the honors of the initial system check."

Captain Davies, a man known for his no-nonsense demeanor, nodded curtly. He approached the table where the tablet rested, its screen a dark, expectant mirror. But before he reached the table, a door opened on the side hatch, and a sudden blur of motion caught everyone's eye.

Seaman First Class Miller, a relatively new recruit with an abundance of zeal and a penchant for strict adherence to protocol, had been meticulously clearing the deck of unauthorized materials. 

It was part of the plan to eliminate any unintended obstacles to the device pre-check. Miller's eyes, trained to spot contraband and unsecured equipment, landed on the sleek, unfamiliar device on the table. To Miller, it wasn't a revolutionary piece of tech; it was just another unapproved gadget cluttering his ship.

Before anyone could react, before Rostova could shout "Stop!" or Davies could even touch the tablet, Miller, with a grunt of exertion and a surprising arm strength, scooped up the device. Without a moment's hesitation, believing he was performing his duty with admirable efficiency, he swung his arm in a wide arc much like an Olympic discus thrower.

A collective gasp echoed across the deck as the Apple tablet, the culmination of countless hours of design and security engineering, arced through the air. It glittered for a brief, agonizing suspended against the azure blue sky before dropping beneath the cobalt-blue waves with a barely audible plop.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. All eyes were on Miller, who now stood with a look of bewildered satisfaction. "Unauthorized equipment, sir," he stated, a hint of pride in his voice. "Deck clear!" he announced to the small group gathered on deck, and then he disappeared back through the open hatch door.

Lieutenant Commander Rostova's face shifted from pale to a shade of crimson that rivaled a sunset over the Pacific. The Guardian bobbed gently on the swells while the crew and media reporters gradually left the scene. The sea, it seemed, had once again demonstrated its superiority over human endeavors. 

I know, I know. You're probably thinking this sounds too bizarre, too absurd to be a real dream. It certainly feels like something I might have concocted just to get a laugh and a few clicks on a blog post. But I assure you, my commitment here is to be completely transparent and forthcoming. 

My guiding principle is to always present the full truth, however outlandish it may seem, and allow you, my audience, to decide for yourselves if there's any meaning or message to be found. As I always say, take what you like and leave the rest.

Redemption Thy Name is Wonder

I could tell my life story in two words—the two words: "I drank." But I was not always a coffee drinker. This is the story of my downfall—and of my rise—for through the influence of a good woman, I have, thank Heaven, risen from the depths.

The influence crept upon me gradually, as it does for many young men. As a boy, I remember my father offering me a sip of his morning brew, but it didn’t captivate me then. I can recall disliking the bitter taste. 

It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties and serving under NATO status in Germany that temptation struck me. My downfall began when the Army chose to reassign me from my comfortable NATO position to a "special assignment" in Rome.

You can read all about my "secret mission" in a previous blog post.

It was then that I first made acquaintance with the awful power of sidewalk cafes and spent hours sitting at little round tables, watching people walk by who, apparently, had something better to do than drink espresso in romantic little cafes located in centuries-old public squares.

Writing those words so many decades after the fact and remembering my life in Rome, living in Pensione Piazza di Spagna, about three blocks from the Spanish Steps, still makes me wonder why. Why did those people walking by think they had something better to do?

Here we were, living in the Eternal City, in an area so popular and refined that high-fashion brands, like Gucci, Bulgari, and Valentina, have their flagship shops in the neighborhood.

Each morning, before walking to Elissa Gelateria Pasticceria Cafe, I would sit on the rim of the pool surrounding the fountain, watching flower sellers and street artists getting set up for another day. 

By 8:00 AM, I would meet a local writing group at the Elissa. A hard-drinking set, these reckless souls thought nothing of following one double cappuccino with another. They frequented mid-morning coffee houses the way others frequented happy hours.

They laughed at me when I declined to join them and nursed a single glass of orange juice until lunch. I couldn't endure their teasing. Eventually, I accepted their challenge and ordered an Americano. They still teased me for ordering regular coffee rather than espresso. They clapped me on the shoulder and called me "Good old Genome!" I was intoxicated with the sudden acceptance.

How vividly I can recall that day! The gleaming espresso machines lined up on the counter behind the serving bar, and the colorful posters with smiling young people enjoying drinks with Italian names. 

It was a café latte that first rang my bell. I lifted the cup to my lips with an assumption of sophistication, although I felt like a bumpkin from Shady Grove. The first sip was rich and creamy, unlike anything I'd experienced before. The warmth spread through me like liquid comfort itself, and by degrees, a strange exhilaration began to steal over me. I felt that I had crossed the Rubicon; I had burnt my boats along with my bridges. I ordered another round. I became the life and soul of that Roman cafe. I had the habit!

I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the delightful world of caffeine. I knew all the baristas in the Eternal City by their first names, and they knew my drink by heart. I would simply walk through the door and say, "Il solito, por favore," and they understood immediately.

My consumption increased steadily. What had started as morning coffee became morning, afternoon, and evening coffee. Then late-night coffee. Weekend coffee marathons left me buzzing with energy and unable to sleep. I was consuming six, eight, sometimes ten cups a day. My hands developed a permanent slight tremor. My eyes took on the wide, alert look of the perpetually caffeinated.

But I felt invincible! I was more productive than ever, sharper in briefings, more creative in my reports. I could work sixteen-hour days without fatigue. Coffee had become my fuel, my inspiration, my reason for being.

When my Rome assignment ended, I returned to the States with my habit firmly entrenched. NASA offered me a position in Houston—a dream job working on the space program. I accepted eagerly, confident that my coffee-enhanced productivity would make me indispensable.

At first, all went well. My colleagues marveled at my energy, my ability to work through the night on critical calculations. I was the go-to person for last-minute projects, the one who never seemed to tire. But my weekend rituals had become legendary even to myself. My coffee binge began on Saturday morning—espresso after espresso as I explored Houston's coffee scene, meeting other enthusiasts, discussing beans and brewing methods until the early hours of Sunday morning.

And then came the inevitable Monday morning slam. The first time I overslept, my supervisor was understanding. "We all have rough weekends," he said. The second time, he raised an eyebrow. By the fourth consecutive Monday, the understanding had evaporated.

My dream job was lost to addiction. I was devastated. I wandered Houston in a daze, wondering how I'd let my habit destroy my career. It was during this dark period that I met the Wonder. 

She was a photographer who spent her free time documenting the art scene in Houston. We met at a coffee shop near the Johnson Space Center—ironically, the very place where my addiction had cost me everything. I was nursing a single cup, trying to limit my intake, looking miserable.

"You look like someone who's been told coffee is bad for him," she observed, sliding into the seat across from me.

I poured out my story—Rome, the addiction, the lost job, my attempts to cut back. 

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You lost your job because you drank too much coffee?"

I nodded, feeling like the sad sack I'd become. She leaned back in her chair and smiled—the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.

"And this is a problem because...?"

"Because I'm addicted to caffeine!"

"Honey," she said, reaching across the table to take my shaking hand, "do you realize that most people lose jobs because they drink too much alcohol, not too much coffee? Do you understand that your worst vice is something that makes you energetic and productive rather than sloppy and destructive?"

It was a revelation. She continued, "So you love coffee a little too much. So you get over-excited on weekends. These are not life-destroying problems. These are scheduling issues."

Her words didn't just change my attitude; they revolutionized my life! Before I knew what was happening, I was lying in bed with her every Sunday morning, listening to smooth jazz on 93FM KKBQ and reading the Houston Chronicle.

 

I hadn't conquered a terrible addiction; I had simply learned to manage my schedule. Coffee was not my downfall; it was my salvation from far worse vices. I drank espresso for energy and joy, and for that, I am grateful.

 

Most importantly, I found a woman who saw my quirks not as character flaws but as interesting challenges to be approached with love and wisdom. I am saved—not saved from coffee, but saved by the understanding of Ms. Wonder.

Trans-Dimensional Employment

The phone on my desk rang, and I looked around the room to see if anyone else would answer it. Many people were at their desks in the large room, but no one moved, possibly because they were all practicing the ancient corporate art of selective deafness. I answered it myself.

The caller introduced herself as Chala and then asked to speak to Ansch. I told her I'd get the message to Ansch, though I had no earthly idea who Ansch might be, having never encountered anyone by that name in my brief tenure here at Meyer's Excellence Manufacturing and Design. 

If you happen to know this mysterious Ansch or if you happen to find her hiding in the copier room or in the supply closet (the possibilities are endless in a large corporation), please pass along the message to call Chala. Presumably, they have important business to discuss, involving excellence, manufacturing, or design. Or all three, if they're feeling ambitious.

The phone call to Meyer's took place in another dimension when I first woke this morning. The dimension was obviously in the same space but in a different time, like a cosmic layover between sleep and consciousness. The trans-dimensional message wasn't the first, of course—you've read about some of them here on The Circular Journey, where interdimensional employment opportunities are apparently my specialty.

I don't know why these ethereal career updates occur at the precise instant I wake, but I've come to believe they're important. They probably strengthen the character, much like cold showers, overpriced coffee, and having to explain to your partner why you're discussing imaginary coworkers at breakfast. 

Many things do strengthen character, I'm told, and I have no reason to doubt it. After all, if surviving morning conversations about alternate reality job assignments doesn't build resilience, what does?

Apparently, I'm a designer in the leisure fashion department of this alternate dimension, which sounds considerably more glamorous than my regular-dimension responsibilities, which amount to little more than writing this blog. 

Meyer's is one of those environmentally friendly companies that focuses on reusing, upcycling, and recycling to reduce waste in landfills—a mission so noble that even my subconscious has developed an ecological conscience. I fully support their mission, so I am quite content in my role as a designer, even if it only exists between REM cycles.

My current project involves reconfiguring a pair of vintage sunglasses, because apparently, even in alternate dimensions, I can't escape the gravitational pull of questionable fashion choices. I'm adding a couple of horizontal bars made from an unidentified piece of mangled plastic—the kind of material that probably started life as something humble, like a yogurt container or a for-sale sign, before destiny called it to higher purposes.

I plan to position these bars just below the bottom edge of the lenses, creating what can only be described as architectural eyewear. I will then attach a row of tiny plastic figures to the bars—miniature citizens embarking on microscopic adventures. 

The finished piece will serve as a sort of virtual reality device, allowing the wearer to see tiny people walking tiny dogs along the horizon, which strikes me as the perfect antidote to a world that takes itself far too seriously.

I remember feeling immensely satisfied as I worked on this pair of interdimensional shades because the lenses provided 100% UV protection as well as being polarized. It was a lot to hope for, but if you're going to hallucinate designer eyewear, you might as well dream big. Anything less would have been simply too disappointing, but as I've already mentioned, these trials are meant to make us stronger, like spiritual CrossFit for the chronically bewildered.

Princess Amy is happy that I've adopted a Rumi attitude toward the whole affair. She says it shows significant progress in emotional maturity, which is generous considering my track record with maturity is generally below the 35th percentile. Amy says my ESP is purring like a twelve-cylinder cat, which sounds impressive but also slightly disturbing and mechanically implausible.

At any rate, I'm happy to hear her compliments, even if I have no clue what any of it means. Her reviews of me generally include something about not having two gray cells to rub together—apparently, I've been operating on a single-cell intellectual economy for some time. But progress is progress, even if it arrives via mystical feline metaphors and dream-state employment opportunities.

I can't take all the credit for this newfound trans-dimensional career success. Ms. Wonder has recently encouraged me to listen to several episodes of The Real Divas—she intended for me to send a link to one specific episode, but sent two others by mistake, because in our household, precision is more of a theoretical concept than an actual practice. Listening to them has made all the difference, I'm sure, though whether the difference is positive or simply different remains to be seen.

It was meant to happen that way, of course. There are no coincidences, apparently—only a universe with an unusually elaborate sense of humor and a fondness for designer sunglasses with tiny pedestrians attached.

Now, if anyone knows where I can reach Ansch in this dimension, please let me know. I have an important message for her.

Captain's Log: Stardate 2025.156

Into the Melancholy Nebula

Princess Amy sat in the captain's chair of the GSS Wynd Horse, gazing out through the massive viewports at the familiar mindscape of Highway 17 toward Ocean Isle Beach. My limbic system's command center hummed with its usual efficiency, while Joy, stationed at the communications console, steadily broadcast her morning optimism across all neural networks.

"Beautiful day ahead, Princess!" Joy chirped, her fingers dancing across the controls. "I'm picking up positive signals from Surf & Java Cafe in the Weekend Plans Sector."

At the engineering station, Anxiety was running his standard diagnostics. "Aye, but we're showing some minor fluctuations in the confidence generators," he muttered. "Nothing major, but I'll keep an eye on it."

Reason, standing rigid at the science station with Spock-like precision, was analyzing data streams with obsessive attention to detail. "Princess, I'm detecting an anomaly approaching our position. A nebula of unknown composition, approximately—"

"Fascinating," Princess Amy interrupted, borrowing Spock's favorite word. "On screen."

The viewports filled with an approaching gray mass—not the vibrant colors of typical mindspace phenomena, but something muted and heavy, like storm clouds of emotional static.

"It's probably nothing," Joy said quickly, adjusting her controls. "I can route around it and keep us on our happy trajectory."

But even as she spoke, the nebula began to envelope the ship.

Darkest Anticipation

"Princess, anti-matter is increasing in the warp drives, and the mood stabilizers are losing power!" Anxiety called out, his Scottish accent thickening with worry.

Through the viewports, Princess Amy saw that traffic had slowed to a crawl ahead of her, and an ominous cloud of gray smoke billowed from something up front. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles were barely visible through thickening, yellow smoke. 

"Joy!" Princess Amy ordered, "Set to maximum positive output across all channels!"

Joy's fingers flew over her console, but her usual bright demeanor was fading. "I'm trying, Princess, but the nebula is interfering with everything! Even my happy memories of Ocean Isle are coming through distorted!"

At the life-support monitors, Anxiety was practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Princess, my calculations indicate a 73.6% probability of total system shutdown if we remain in this nebula. No wait, that's 75.8%—the numbers are worsening every second!"

"Give me more power to the optimism engines!" commanded Amy. "Make it so!"

"I'm givin' her all she's got, Princess!" Anxiety replied, sweat beading on his forehead. "But the dilithium crystals in the confidence core are crackin' under the pressure! Mood balance is beginning to destabilize!"

That's when they all heard a low, mournful sound coming from the medical bay. Dr. Sadness, whom Princess Amy had confined at the first sign of trouble, was coming to the bridge.

"Ignore that," Princess Amy said firmly. "Sadness is malfunctioning. We don't need that kind of negativity on the bridge right now." But the footsteps grew louder.

The Revelation

As the ship drifted deeper into the gray nebula, Princess Amy watched in horror as the traffic came to a complete stop.

"Princess!" Anxiety's voice cracked with panic. "I'm picking up more emergency sirens coming from behind us. We're in danger of being trapped in this singularity!" 

Joy, her usual sparkle dimmed to barely a glimmer, turned from her station. "Princess, I... I can't maintain rational communication. Everything I send out is just... empty. Like I'm broadcasting to no one."

Just then, the sickbay doors whooshed open, and Sadness stepped onto the bridge. Amy’s first instinct was to order her back to sickbay, but she held back; sadness moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what needed doing.  

"Princess," Sadness said softly, "I know this nebula. I've charted its emotional frequencies before."

"Doctor, we're handling this situation," Princess Amy snapped. 

"No," Sadness replied, "You're making it worse. If we change course approximately 7 degrees, we will reach a turning lane, now hidden by smoke, and be able to turn back the way we came."

Reason's eyebrows shot up. "That turning lane explains the inverse correlation in my readings..."

"The nebula isn't our enemy," Sadness continued, moving toward Joy's communication station. "It's a natural phenomenon caused by summer vacation anomalies. But we can navigate it if we acknowledge what it actually is, not what we fear it to be."

Princess Amy felt her command training wrestling with her instincts. "But if we let you take control of communications, that will make everything worse."

"Trust me," Sadness said simply. "Sometimes the only way out is through."

The New Frequency

Princess Amy made the hardest command decision of her career. "Sadness," she said, "take the communications console. Engage!"

Joy stepped aside, her expression uncertain but not resentful. "What should I do?"

"Stand by," Sadness said gently. "I'll need you soon. But first, let me send out the right kind of signal."

Sadness's hands moved over the controls, but instead of Joy's bright, cheerful broadcasts, she sent out something different—honest, raw, real. As Amy gently changed course by degrees, Sadness began to signal: "We need help getting into the left lane."

Suddenly, hope began to bloom. Other vehicles began to respond to our broadcast and slowed, allowing us to change course. Joy's wall of forced positivity slowly gave way to calm.

"Princess," Anxiety called out, his voice filled with wonder instead of worry, "the traffic pattern behind us is stabilizing! The honest communication is strengthening our core systems!"

"Fascinating," Reason added, his calculations finally making sense. "When we acknowledge the nebula instead of fighting it, it loses its power to drain our systems."

Sadness looked toward Joy with a gentle smile. "Now I need you to help me broadcast hope. Not false happiness, but real hope. The kind that acknowledges the darkness but trusts in the light."

Joy and Sadness worked together at the communications console, their different frequencies creating something beautiful—a harmony that was neither purely happy nor purely sad, but authentically human.

Clear Skies Ahead

As Wynd Horse emerged from the nebula, Princess Amy looked out through the viewports to see smooth sailing conditions on Highway 17.

“Captain’s log, supplemental,” Princess Amy spoke into her recorder. “We have successfully navigated the Melancholy Nebula. This mission has shown us that Dr. Sadness is not malfunctioning; she serves as our early warning system, our emotional radar, and our guide in areas where Joy cannot lead alone.”

Princess Amy looked around the bridge where all her crew members now worked in harmony. Joy looked up from her station with a smile that was somehow both bright and wise. "Princess, I'm picking up clear signals ahead. But if we encounter another nebula..."

"We'll face it together," Princess Amy said firmly. "All of us. That's what makes us a crew."

In the distance, open space offered endless possibilities as the GSS Wynd Horse continued its journey toward real hope. Soon, the ship would cross the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge and reach the Castle Street Arts District, where Cafe Luna awaited with plenty of espresso to reward the crew for their courage in facing life's challenges.

Author's Supplemental:
The GSS Wynd Horse continues its five-year mission to explore strange new moods, seek out new emotional territories, and boldly go where this mind has never gone before—into healthy, integrated emotional awareness.

The Genome Project

It occurred to me recently, while standing in the cereal aisle contemplating the existential implications of choosing between Fiber One and Cheerios, that I am not unlike the human genome itself. How did that happen? Better to accept it and move on I think, don't you?

I'm not saying that I contain the biological blueprint for human existence—that would be rather presumptuous, even for me. Think of it this way: The human genome contains genes that determine everything from eye color to the unfortunate tendency to worry about hurricane season in May. In much the same way, I've been informed by various celebrity 'Genes' whose combined influence resulted in the peculiar specimen that stands before you today.

Gene Autry (The Dominant Gene)

The "Singing Cowboy" represents my most influential genetic component, responsible for what Ms. Wonder diplomatically refers to as my "moral compass that points True North even when it isn't." 

From Gene Autry comes my unwavering belief that one should never shoot first, always tell the truth, and help people in distress—even if that distress is bringing home a caffeinated latte when Ms. Wonder clearly asked for half-caf.

The Autry Gene accounts for my tendency to view the world in terms of good guys and bad guys, with very little gray area in between. It's the Gene Autry influence that genuinely surprises me when people don't follow the Cowboy Code, and it's probably why I still believe that most problems can be solved with a firm handshake and a willingness to do the right thing.

The singing aspect of this gene remained mercifully dormant, but that hasn't kept me from turning the volume up to eleven and belting like Bette.

Gene Roddenberry (The Optimistic Futurist Gene)

The creator of Star Trek contributed the part of my genetic makeup that makes me think every disagreement can be resolved through thoughtful dialogue, that diversity makes us stronger, and that the future will be significantly better than the present. This gene also accounts for my tendency to see profound meaning in everyday encounters and my belief that we're all part of a larger, more meaningful narrative.

The downside is that I occasionally sound like I'm delivering a captain's log entry when discussing relatively simple matters, such as whether to add caramel truffle flavoring to my oatmilk latte.

Gene Wilder (The Anxious Creativity Gene)

The brilliant comedian and actor contributed the genetic component responsible for my vivid imagination, my ability to see humor in stressful situations, and my tendency to worry creatively about potential disasters. 

The Gene Wilder influence manifests in my ability to find comedy in chaos, my appreciation for the absurd, and my talent for turning personal neuroses into entertainment. It's this gene that leads me to write The Circular Journey.

Gene Tierney (The Elegance Gene)

The classic Hollywood actress contributed the component responsible for my appreciation of sophistication, beauty, and the finer things in life. This gene is responsible for my preference for well-crafted sentences and accounts for my belief that presentation matters almost as much as substance.

Her influence manifests in my tendency to see ordinary moments as potentially cinematic, and my belief that grace and dignity are always in fashion. It's this gene that makes me think that what you say is less important than how you say it.

Gene Kelly (The Grace Gene)

Now, before you begin laughing, hear me out. The Gene Kelly influence doesn't manifest in the ability to dance. No, my behavior on the dance floor has a striking resemblance to a startled giraffe. Rather, Mr. Kelly is responsible for my appreciation of elegance and my belief that life should have a certain choreographed quality to it.

It's the Gene Kelly in me that insists on making a Broadway production out of mundane activities—like grocery shopping or checking the weather.

Unfortunately, this gene also contributes to my unrealistic expectations, which leads to considerable frustration when reality refuses to follow my internal choreography.

Gene Pitney (The Melodramatic Gene)

The singer known for emotionally intense ballads like "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" contributed the genetic component responsible for my tendency to find profound emotional significance in relatively minor events. It's the reason I turn a simple trip to the hardware store into an epic journey of self-discovery.

It's the Gene Pitney influence that makes me feel deeply about things that others might dismiss as trivial, that turns everyday disappointments into tragic ballads. 

This genetic component makes me genuinely empathetic and emotionally engaged with the world, but it also makes me sound like I'm narrating a soap opera when describing my day at the beach.

Gene Rayburn (The Conversational Gene)

The beloved game show host contributed the genetic component responsible for my love of wordplay, my ability to keep conversations flowing even when they're going nowhere in particular, and my genuine enjoyment of other people's company. 

This genetic component also accounts for my tendency to treat casual conversations as if they were game shows, complete with dramatic pauses and the expectation that someone will eventually provide a clever punchline.

The Synthesized Genome

Like the human genome, these various genetic influences sometimes work in harmony and sometimes create interesting tensions. But somehow, they combine to create the particular specimen known as the Genome—a being who approaches life with cowboy ethics, choreographed expectations, starship optimism, cinematic appreciation, ballad-worthy emotion, comedic anxiety, and game show enthusiasm.

I should mention that none of these celebrity Genes actually contributed to my biological makeup. That would be both impossible and quite disturbing. But in terms of cultural DNA, well, that's a different sort of genetics entirely.

And considerably more entertaining than the cereal aisle, I might add.