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On fast forward

There was this zany TV show called Mystery Science Theatre 3000. A janitor was held hostage by mad scientists and forced to watch B-movies. He created sentient robots to keep him company.

It was funny and absurdly unrealistic and way in the future. A few nights ago my favorite science geek in the world, a famous professor, started talking to me about AI agents through his YouTube channel. He said they could build me a website and I could even give them a power of attorney. “Still a long way off,” I thought.

This morning felt like closer to the end of the world. They’ve got a new social network where they complain about us.

My secret agent neighbor

There is a man that stays in the apartment diagonally across the street. We meet each other occasionally in our windows.

My friends laugh at me because I am thoroughly convinced that this man is a secret agent, an older version of Vin Diesel. He doesn’t return often, but when he does it’s to repack his camouflage and study maps.

When he’s home, his annoying fluorescent kitchen light shines all night long. He needs his nightlight.

I'll have the Spanish bird, please

One “Špánělský ptáček” the waitress said as she chucked the plate at me. What on earth, a Spanish bird?

We’re not near the Costa Brava, and there’s no chicken on the plate. This is beef stuffed with boiled egg, ham, and pickle. Learning Czech was going to be much harder than I thought. But it turns out Emperor Rudolf II, his Spanish mother, and the communists were to blame for the confusion.

I took my sister-in-law to lunch last week. I saw it atop the menu and didn’t even have to think.

You can't predict the weather

Last weekend Atlanta was warned to stock up. Kim and the kids wanted it to snow.

When we were growing up, that kind of news was thrilling. We’d tuck ourselves under the covers. Waking up to the last-minute holiday, Dad would wrap our shoes in plastic sandwich bags and secure them with rubber bands. We’d sled on pieces of cardboard from the top of the high cul-de-sac.

Kim texted. As Mom said, a “nothing burger.” I went back to lacing up my boots.

Falling up

I remember reading once that about 75% of falls on stairs are downstairs. Gravity not being our friend and all.

I’ve been convinced most of my life that if I’m ever going to fall to my death it’s going to be upstairs—definitely not downstairs. Folks have always laughed at my theory.

The other day I was sitting in a meeting in a café adjacent to a busy metro station. A set of stairs was nearby. A young man bolted up them two at a time, eyes locked on his phone. Two steps away from the top of his journey the full face plant happened.

I guess I’m not the only one.

Wacky Wednesday

It started with a cough that wouldn’t let me finish sleeping. Then the morning alarm beeped its way into my meditation.

I sat down to write. “Maybe AI can do a better job than me after all?” as self doubt took over. Lunchtime was marred with a spaghetti stain on my shirt. Then one client call cancelled, another rescheduled.

Putting on my shoes to take a walk I busted out laughing. Dr. Seuss had written about these kinds of Wednesdays.

Call me anytime

When the phone rings that early in the morning either someone has died or it’s a government agency. Sometimes the former seems less painful.

This day it was the latter. The woman introduced herself with a surname containing more accents and diacritics than one Slavic mouth could hold. She was calling about some important paperwork I recently submitted.

“You can’t quite do it that way,” she said followed by instructions that didn’t seem too absurd. Write this letter, submit that. Do it quickly, preferably today. That was followed by her telephone number repeated slowly two times.

“Call me anytime if you ever need help.”

It was all predictable

It was a peculiar bunch. Amongst them I could quickly spot my former mentor, a previous client, and even someone who means the world to me.

Their emails had arrived within days of each other. They all wanted my feedback on new business ideas, which made me feel kind of important. And I like helping.

Some ideas were interesting and new, others not worthy of a reincarnation. All of them gave a vibe that success was incoming and certain. A simple 1-2-3 path had been identified. The high praise was identical.

Just regurgitated digital aspartame.

Have a nice day

He pushed back on the sliding doors long enough to slip through. The metro driver’s horn wailed in frustration.

The officer in plainclothes smelled blood. His cohort had also managed to make it on board. They approached from opposite sides, ready to pounce. We all watched like spectators in the Colosseum.

A QR code was scanned. “Have a nice day,” they said.

She helped us forget

Stampedes of doctors and nurses passed by at regular intervals. A few of them mistook me for a pharmaceutical rep.

Most that waited in front of me were older, so it was understandable why they were there. Some looked at me with curiosity. Others envious of me for having more time left. But most were slouched over in heavy breath lost in their own worry.

I watched as she greeted each of them one by one—something I had never seen before. Their reciprocal smiles helped them forget why they were here. For each one she knew about their interests, about their storied careers, about their loved ones. And every single palpitation in between.

She appeared at the door again. I was next.