Mysterious Tour

...let me take you down coz I'm going to....

Monthly posts being the goal, I'm almost out of February. So I return to a question that has bothered me and BOTHERED me, for decades. I don't know if this question bothers other people the way it bothers me, but I am used to being irritated by things other folk ignore. For example, I spend more time angry about incorrect public punctuation than anyone of my acquaintance. But this isn't about that. This is about the Beatles' short film, Magical Mystery Tour. The obvious question is, does one need to be English for Magical Mystery Tour to make ANY sense? 

Apparently, even the English, watching this bewildering tour-de-force on Boxing Day in the UK, were bewildered. Of course, it was filmed in colour, because it's 1967 and We Have The Technology, brilliant colour, cinematography by none other than Sir Richard Starkey, whom you may know better as Ringo. It was broadcast in black & white, because that's how BBC1 rolled at the time. 

And why not? If you're confident that most of your audience doesn't yet have a colour telly in the parlor, you continue broadcasting in monochrome. This is not something that would have been likely to occur to Sir Ringo, or de facto director Paul McCartney, and if it had, what might, or could, they have done differently? My guess is nothing, as it seems to me that The Beatles spent a significant amount of their careers forging new ground and walking on without looking back, unconcerned who would catch on, catch up, or be left in the dust. 

The premise for Magical Mystery Tour was simple enough: to film about a Mystery Tour that was infused with not just figurative but actual magic, as provided by unseen wizards.

"John and I remembered Mystery Tours, and we always thought this was a fascinating idea: getting on a bus and not knowing where you were going. Rather romantic and slightly surreal! All these old dears with the blue rinses going off to mysterious places. Generally there's a crate of ale in the boot of the coach and you sing lots of songs. It's a charabanc trip. So we took that idea and used it as a basis for a song and the film."  

--Paul McCartney, source undetermined; possibly Many Years From Now by Barry Miles (I found it tucked into a video explaining MMT, with no reference, and in fact needed to pause the video to even READ, never mind capture, the quote.)

And but so the thing is, that is a VERY England-oriented quotation, one that needs unpacking if you're an American born a year before the creation of the cinema monsterpiece in question. Mystery tour. Tour bus. This is a thing tourists do in New York City, or in London. This is not a thing suburban American families do for a casual holiday, nor a day trip, neither. 

I expect most US citizens born before 1973 understand 'dears with blue rinses,' and sure, the elder set congregate at senior centers go places on tour buses, but these people are getting on a bus for some pre-designated show or shopping trip, with pre-determined food stops, and have likely ordered their lunch down to two Splendas with their iced tea months in advance and the only deviation or surprise will be if one of them is dead or hospitalized and unable to make the trip. So much NOT going off adventuring to "mysterious places." 

Now, 'a crate of ale in the boot of the coach' is 100% what I'm talking about when I say this is a very English quotation. A 'crate of ale' might be what I'd call a case or a flat of beer, and the 'boot of the coach' would be the trunk of the bus. I believe. I haven't been to England, and as for going in the '60s, that's a window I was always going to miss.  As for 'a charabanc trip,' the term, from the French char a bancs, "wagon with benches," evolved to mean a hired transport for several to many people at once. Folk of a certain age, in a particularly geography, have fine memories of such trips, but they are not of the US variety. We'd call it a bus trip, and the notion of a group bar-crawl transport is, to us, a more modern notion and called 'party bus' which may include pub crawl, but also substances of many sorts on the bus, and an expectation of rowdy collegiate behavior, not at all the thing we'd associate with 'blue rinse dears' or blue-collar 'beanfeasters' at all.

Of course, by the 1970s, even in England the day-trip coach holiday was becoming an artifact, what with folk having their own cars and whole week-ends or even weeks for leisure outings.

That could (and possibly should) be the end of it, but because it's a rabbit hole, I'm still at it with Magical Mystery Tour. Yet another odd factoid; it's regarding the more contemporary band Death Cab For Cutie.

Gibbard took the band name from the song "Death Cab for Cutie", which was written by Neil Innes and Vivian Stanshall and recorded by their group the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. The song is a track on the Bonzo's 1967 debut album, Gorilla, and was performed by them in the Beatles film Magical Mystery Tour. The title was originally that of a story in an old pulp fiction crime magazine that Innes came across in a street market. In a 2011 interview, Gibbard stated, "The name was never supposed to be something that someone was going to reference 15 years on. So yeah, I would absolutely go back and give it a more obvious name." --Wikipedia

Which reminds me of the Dave Grohl story. After the demise of Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, Dave Grohl in 1995 released an album under the name of Foo Fighters, called Foo Fighters. The album gained enough traction that he had to actually acquire a band in order to tour. The band (now an actual band) released a song this autumn that my sister (a big FooFan) didn't believe could possibly be on my radar before it was on hers, but yes, by random chance of there not being any baseball on my radio, I did. The song, "Under You," made me question whether I'd been missing out not listening to Foo Fighters for all these... some amount of time. So I listened to a Foo playlist, and determined that the only other song by the Foo that I was familiar with was "Everlong," which I mistakenly had believed to be a Green Day hit. 

Well, if you're a FooFan, you know, of course, that it's not. But while I listened to this Foo playlist, I kept wishing I was listening instead to Green Day. So I think Foo Fighters is fine, and Dave Grohl is (mostly) fine, but I evidently prefer the sound of Green Day. 

And that's all right, to acknowledge one's preferences without confusing them with actual quality, because so much of life is about personal bias. "Is it good?" one might ask. If that one is asking ME, I can say without bias that the Honda CRV in fact IS a good vehicle because I've researched it, driven it, driven other vehicles and done comparisons. The Toyota Rav-4 is also objectively a good vehicle, by and large as a used vehicle significantly harder to find and somewhat pricier than a comparable CRV. I can objectively say that my family doesn't like the sightlines of the CRV, but the sightlines don't seem to bother me, possibly because I'm the shortest member of my family.  Is a Reuben better than a BLT is not a question I would answer directly. Which is to say that I'm not judging Green Day to be BETTER than Foo Fighters, only more to my personal liking. Neither band is the creator of what I consider a musically ideal (I'd say perfect, but ....) song, "Ice", by Crack the Sky, which runs 4 1/2 minutes on vinyl but in live performance can go as long as 12 minutes. 

The Beatles, despite having a skimpy seven-year run of music-making, have it all over all of those bands, musically, in my opinion. Aside from the songwriting, the idea of a concept album, new mixing techniques, the foundation of MTV music videos, even the popularization of classical and 'exotic' instruments in rock music can largely be credited to them. They will, however, never ever make anything new. 

Does that matter, though? They made Magical Mystery Tour - shot in about two weeks- AND Yellow Submarine (okay,  their participation in Yellow Submarine was under duress at first, but then they loved it and threw the entirety of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band at it) and while Submarine was very psychedelic and thus obviously popular, Mystery Tour was very Fellini-esque, and not everyone likes even the real Fellini. MMT is immediately hailed  as a 'flop,'  and even among more contemporary critics, it is regarded as not a good choice. It seems to me, though, that the Beatles did exactly what they planned to do when making it. I think they hit the mark of "rather romantic and slightly surreal" when you see it in color. In black and white, on a 16-inch screen, I imagine it's basically baffling.

Only it wasn't popular with their fans, which at that point, the Beatles weren't used to, and so Paul apologized to the public on the David Frost show. Now, David Frost is a big deal, and everyone sees this  notably for the 1977 interviews with the disgraced Richard Nixon, which led to the 2006 stage show and  2008 film starring Frank Langella (and in the film version, Kevin Bacon- whut?) which you might think could be my favorite film, but it's not. 

My favorite film, (this week, anyway) also Fellini-esque, according to my Dad, who did film stuff when he was in art school and later taught film stuff when he taught art school, is a rather obscure project from the '80s (surprise, surprise) called Bagdad Cafe. 

Maybe I should see some actual Fellini? While I'm at it, I certainly should see Freaks (Tod Browning, not Federico Fellini; 1932, not 2018). It's a mystery why I haven't seen it already.

The Beatles; Strawberry Fields Forever, 1967

Jinnintonnix? YES.

....Some people buy powder, some people buy booze/ Some people use a chainsaw. Which tool is right for you?...

He's teaching me to use massively dangerous power tools. I'm covered in dust I probably shouldn't inhale. I'm wearing clothes I'd be embarrassed to donate to a shelter for the unhoused. I'm having a fabulously terrific time. 

He's exacting about angles, drawing very straight lines for cutting on what is, essentially, a rather imprecise tool, and the lines, once cut, will need to be sanded anyway. 

I wouldn't sand them, myself, except I have a very real and deep-seated terror of splinters. 

Some of the stuff we're working with will never splinter. 

I end up with a splinter in my hand from the backing on a disc of sandpaper designed to be used with a mechanical tool, not held in my wee paw like a coffee mug, making largely masturbatory motions on a meter-long cuboid in an unnatural shade of pink. After painstakingly plucking with my fingernails the nearly invisible fleck of fiberglass (or something like it), I return to the task of rounding corners, up and down, with a twisting spin to keep things even.

I'm learning about materials I never heard of, discovering the difference between five-minute two-part epoxy and thin epoxy resin, which has another purpose. He teaches me a lovely technique for cutting a curve on plywood with a bandsaw, which is largely unlike a table saw, a jigsaw and a hacksaw. When I use the bandsaw, I find it enough like operating a sewing machine to feel familiar, and even soothing. Except for the real possibility of losing digits to the teeth of the blade, it IS soothing- the vibration is regular and smooth, and the saw makes a noise in a key that doesn't raise my hackles. This is different from most common tools that I've banned from my life- hair dryers, vacuums, lawn mowers- in fact, I purchased a battery-powered lawn mower that looks like a toy because its vibration and pitch are tolerable to me. Previously, I purchased a rotary mower, because it had neither vibration or noise unless I actively pushed it. I enjoyed using it, listening to ball games in my earbuds, until the blades dulled and it became ineffective. If I figure out how to sharpen the blades, I may use it again. I certainly did not get rid of it. 

My tasks feel inconsequential: remembering where the safety glasses and pencils are located, reminding him what he went into the basement to fetch, holding open the door while he carries the table saw outside or the giant sander inside, moving things back to their proper places, vacuuming with the enormous ugly shop vac with the condescendingly huge ON/OFF button that I still have difficulty locating, and keeping the parts we're using separate from the scraps that look alarmingly like the parts we're using. 

When he tells me this is a good stopping point and offers Jinnintonnix, there's only one possible answer. I watch him measure carefully, then empty the bottle into the measuring tool and divide the remainder between the two glasses. 

The surprise happens fifty or so minutes later, when I find myself in the parking lot of a McDonalds, trying to absorb alcohol with cheap greasy edible substances. Given my sudden mood swing to maudlin, it's absurd that it's called a Happy Meal. 

Power Tools; The Tubes, 1981

Sold OUT

...Hello, yeah, it's been awhile/ Not much, how about you?....

'Not much' is a lie, though. I'm living too many concurrent lives, with limited discretionary time, which I often spend sleeping. It's the final day of September: just finished with Baseball Season, busy with my day job, Murder Mystery, Mother, writing theatre reviews, and I'm right in the thick of Renaissance Festival  Season. RenFest and its associated activities (costume design, building, repair, washing, mime lunch prep, stilt maintenance, ongoing performer training, logistics, equipment management) occupy the majority of my attention.

Though one of my mimes frequently says, "How do you spell 'actor'? W-H-O-R-E,"  I don't usually feel like a sellout. My niche is weird and tiny. Making people's day in 45 seconds or fewer. Being professionally beautiful. Showing up fabulous. Changing clothes and posing for photographers. Following the Big 3 Rules of Be early,  Be gorgeous, Be easy to work with. (Regular folk accept that as 'talent'. Actual talent seems almost optional.) 

Because people are visual, I designed us to look terrific from every angle, in every condition, including soaking wet with sweat, rain or both. I designed us to be exquisite individually, in pairs, as a group, with or without patrons in the picture. And the picture is the thing, nowadays. "Pictures or it didn't happen" is almost literally true. 

I believe this is what has happened at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. It is "instagrammable" (forgive me if that term has now been replaced by something fresher; I have limited contact with YouthSpeak) to an extreme degree, and content creators adore the opportunity. Outdoors, great lighting, public, costumed event, fanciful food and beverage items, themed weekends, music of all sorts, variety skills stage acts, audience involvement, beautifully handcrafted wearable items from footwear to headgear and all items in between, housewares, craft demonstrations, decorative art, games of skill, dancing, Shakespeare, sideshow acts, a village storyline, participatory activities, beautification services, pretend royalty and a mindbogglingly relaxed dress code. There is a lot of content-able material here. 

By Weekend #2, all the tickets for each day of the rest of the 2025 season had been sold. Some will be returned and resold, which happens nowadays because demand demands it, and the platform making it possible exists. Today, we face a rainy weekend, or at least a rainy Saturday. I judge it to be very little more than aggressive mist.

Snippet #1: Young lad with adult women wishes to be divested of his tee shirt. First Woman: "Oh, no, honey, I don't think it's okay to..." Second Woman: "Don't worry about it. Plenty of people walk around here wearing almost nothing." First Woman (looking around briefly): "Oh, but- "  I catch her attention with my hand, and, from my stilted position of Inside Front Gate Backdrop Position A, and with both hands give the downwards diagonal wave that indicates, "It's fine. He's fine. Everything's fine," (are you trying it right now?) and in fact Second Woman says, as I do the gesture, "He's fine, it's fine, we're all fine."

Snippet #2: Mome Rath is here! I greet her with great excitement. I don't know where she's been or what she's been doing or why we can't have lunch together sometime but I'm delighted to see her. The mime beside me has no idea who Mome Rath is because I am old and she is less so. 

Snippet #3: I sit briefly at the back of Market Stage (in a former iteration, Chess Stage) on one of the Smith-scale flowerpots from which ivy grows. The ivy, presumably, will eventually cover the lattice built above the audience, which already provides some shade. My two stilt mimes come around the corner and spot me on my little perch, and react with expressions indicating adorableness. I discover later that my pinks against the white pot and tendrils of vine around made an especially cute vision. I am unaware whether anyone captured that moment digitally. 

Snippet #4: Outside Front Gate, a patron approaches. "You've been here for many seasons, I think." I indicate that this is so. He points to a young man. "He was a little kid last time we were here. We saw you then." I indicate the young man has grown. "Yeah, he's 27 now," says the patron, "but you, you don't age, do you?" I grin and make the 'aw, shucks' face. 

The relative brilliance of this post is questionable, but at least I've made one. It's not that I haven't been writing. I haven't been writing here. I've been writing here, and here, and here.  Come see me at the Faire, if you can. Those who haunt the Renaissance Festival website may find tickets available. A green check mark is your friend. 

England Dan and John Ford Coley, I'd Really Love To See You Tonight; 1976

[This is for later but you can look at it now if you want. It's completely unrelated. You've been warned.]

https://people.math.wisc.edu/~jwrobbin/Higgeldy.txt

Stalling Again

...a thousand pages, give or take a few /I'll be writing more in a week or two/ I could make it longer if you like the style...

I'd say sorry for not posting more often, but I wonder, really, is anyone reading? Like, does anyone have the patience for it? It's all doomscrolling, echo chambers, clickbait and headlines.

TikTok has taken over where X, formerly known as Twitter, used to rule, and Twitter, though older, was higher profile than Instagram, all of which have supplanted Facebook, leaving it mostly to grandparently-aged folk, which is okay with me, since that age bracket describes most of my friends and much of my family. I'm guessing the longform of essay writing as a community activity is officially dead, which DanTobin DanTobin proclaimed years and years ago. Vines are also dead, but I'm not sure why they needed to die.

But at any rate, relevancy. Blogging as I understand it seems as if it might be returning, on a mysterious platform known as Substack, which may be different from Wordpress and Live Journal, but I'm not sure in what ways.  Among folk returning to the long form are  childhood pal Tim Kreider, my Blogger pal Dan Tobin, another Blogger pal formerly known as Totsie, and I get email notifications about Substacks I've... followed? I think followed, or maybe subscribed to? ...but not with a paid subscription like NYT or Patreon. I suppose I could ask a Substacker to explain to me what the benefits/ differences are of Substack to Blogger, but I hesitate to waste anyone's time with idle curiosity, because that's all it is. I certainly won't abandon my blog to start a new one; jeeze, this blog is almost as old as my grownass adult offsprings. 

I'm working on a "proper" blog entry, complete with links n stuff, as one does, and obviously I'm also working on (read: dodging completing) another review. The show has closed, but in my defense, I watched it on its final performance and immediately came down with Covid. 

I'm vaccinated, so it's uncomfortable and inconvenient and incapacitating, but not dangerous or likely to result in a hospital stay. I have, however, been knocked on my ass. I've slept on the couch since Monday, October 30th, and yesterday afternoon, had my 2nd shower since October 29th.

Today is the first day since the 30th that I've felt anything close to my normal self, and even so, maybe not, because I'm hoarding my methylphenidate. Our insurance, along with Gomez's job, ended in the middle of October, and I haven't sorted how to get new health coverage because, well, I've been sick. 

And I'm job hunting. Still. 

In other news, I'm worried about Mother, whom I've not seen in a month, as the care home in which she resides is about to be sold to an outfit which doesn't have a stellar reputation and has already notified residents of rate increases. Which won't affect us, because Mother was out of money ages ago, and has been a beneficiary of the Benevolent fund, which, along with Medicare/ Medicaid, pays for her residency. If that fund goes away, I don't know what we'll do. I'm sick at the stomach about it, but talking about it doesn't help. What are we to do with folk who outlive their money? 

But here we are. And here I am, not doing any of the things I'm usually doing, housework, yard work, showing up for any of my joblets... well, except for this one thing, stalling. 

Avoiding writing the thing I'm supposed to be writing, by writing something else entirely.

Seems like I'm ALWAYS doing THAT. 

The Beatles; "Paperback Writer;" Single, released May 1966

Quicksilver Changes

...root yourself to the ground/ capitalize on this good fortune/ one word can bring you round....

I'm back, watching the Olympics.... no, sorry; ya'll who get that reference, thanks for being forever friends with me. In fact, I'm listening to the World Series, Diamondbacks at Rangers for Game 1, specifically. 

I don't know if people without ADD open a tab, think of a thing, open another tab, and then, seven more tabs and $87.54 later, struggle desperately to recall what it is they had INTENDED to do when signing onto the computer three and a half hours ago.

No? Just me?

Okay, so at any rate.....

I'm supposed to be writing a review- which I will finish, eventually- I feel like I have a Yogi Berra-ism in me to the effect that of writing is 70% stalling, 20% facts, and the other half is perspiration-  of something wonderful I watched last night. In fact, I've finished writing it and will shortly be listening to Game 2 of the World Series. The review's now in my editor's hands.

As is my habit, I have several windows open JUST for the thing I'm writing, plus additional ones open because I'm hunting for work (anyone reading this, ya hiring?) so instead of being responsible, limiting myself to just the pertinent ones, or heavens forfend, CLOSING any of them....

...I begin breadcrumb-trailing a song I heard once on The Muppet Show (Episode 310, with Marisa Berenson, original air date December 1978) that I thought thematically fit the show I'd just seen, Cabaret Macabre, which I saw for the first time in 2014 because, primarily, of this song by Tom Waits in the show, which, by the way, is LOADS better when sung by the glorious Sarah Olmsted Thomas of Happenstance Theater.

Now, even though I'd seen the sketch in '78, the song stuck with me. In fact, once, more than a decade later, in the car with my (then) boyfriend and Mother, someone said "our house" and three of us sang a riff from three different songs. Mother sang Crosby, Stills and Nash, Gomez sang the one by Madness, and, well, I've told you mine. 

I find video of the sketch I remember, then, after investigating Marisa Berensen, who was a model and I theoretically saw her in Barry Lyndon, (a movie which I remember as being lyrically beautiful and also scarring) and her sister who died when her plane collided with a famous NYC building, I fall down a rabbit hole regarding Shel Silverstein being the writer of that song (yes, The Giving Tree dude, I KNOW)...

...but then chance upon a summation / interpretation of the song and, well. 

Ya know, when someone on the internet is wrong, Something Must Be Done. 

When I came upon it, the article discussed how the song was about inclusion and acceptance. It included "lyrics" from the song which are not there. It talked about the supportive nature of the sweet song. 

It talked about the song "The Giving Tree" that Silverstein had written- which he hadn't; it's by Plain White Tees, released in 2013, four years after Silverstein's death. The song references the children's book of the same name, but isn't remotely BY Silverstein. Good song, though. 

The erroneous article mentioned that Shel Silverstein wrote "A Boy Named Sue," a singular part of the article which was accurate. Now, I went internet hunting, as I was certain that was a Johnny Cash song, and I wasn't entirely wrong about that.  Johnny Cash performed it for the first time at San Quentin in 1969. But no, it was true that Shel Silverstein wrote "A Boy Named Sue," partly due to a conversation he had with Jean Shephard (yes, of A Christmas Story fame, based on In God We Trust- All Others Pay Cash, that looks like a collection of short stories- which he always claimed it wasn't, it was a novel, but it was never his idea to repackage his radio memories anyhow; they were recorded and transcribed by guess who, yep, Shel Silverstein)

 Johnny Cash, on that fateful day in San Quentin, performed the song somewhat differently from how Silverstein imagined and recorded it.  If you're new to "A Boy Named Sue," you're not alone. The Twins hadn't heard it, either.

At any rate, I debated in a comment the author's conclusions. I used the phrase "egregiously, verifiably, factually wrong." I questioned whether the writer was AI. I said that howsomever the author had reached his conclusion, it was obviously not through careful research of the original source material. 

Fewer than 24 hours later, it's as if the original had never existed. Wish I'd screen-shotted that nonsense. My comment, naturally, is also missing. 

YES; "Changes" 1983

Now, Baseball.....

...The crack of the bat, the stadiums roar/We were up on our feet for the tie breaking score....

On Mon, Oct 2, 2023 at 7:50 PM {Redacted}wrote:

 

Hi Cybele,

Are you available for a possible {Historical Character}gig on 11/30/23 

in Washington, DC from 6:15-8:15pm?

Do you own the costume and what is your rate?

Thank you,  

[Signature]

 

On Tue, Oct 3, 2023 at 3:10 PM Cybele Pomeroy <cybele> wrote:

 

Hi, [Agent's Name]

I do own the {Historical Character} costume you may have seen in my photographs. My rate is {Redacted}

Are you for real asking me about the 30th of November? Or did you mean the 30th of October?

You sent me a text message about October 28th.

If you for real meant the 30th of November, I'm available. Same for the 28th of November. 

If you meant October 30th, now we need to talk about baseball. 

I will be available on the evening of the 30th if the American League Pennant winner is ANY team other than the Orioles.

If the Orioles win the American League Pennant, and if the National League Pennant winner is ANY team other than the Atlanta Braves, I will be available on October 30th. 

But if the World Series is Atlanta vs Baltimore, I will NOT be available on October 30th. 

If the World Series is Atlanta vs Baltimore, I WILL be available October 28th.

If it's the Orioles and  ANY OTHER National League TEAM, I will NOT be available October 28th. 

There's a lot of baseball games between now and then. Either team could be eliminated as soon as October 12th.

Whether or not you root for the Atlanta Braves will depend largely on which date is the one you meant. Rooting for the Orioles is required. 

xox

Cybele

On Tue, Oct 3, 2023 at 4:15 PM {Redacted} wrote:

 

I am laughing so hard reading your email. OMG if the Orioles make the World Series!!!

The event for {Historical Character} is 11/30/28. Please hold the date.

Thank you,  

[Signature]

 

On Tue, Oct 3, 2023 at 5:03 PM Cybele Pomeroy <cybele> wrote:

 

[Agent's Name], my love,

I can hold 11/30/23, and will happily put {Historical Character, Agency Name} on that date, IN INK.

But if you really for realsies meant 2028, I must tell you, I don't yet have a calendar for 2028.

I calculated baseball schedules, and you're asking me about a date five years from now? 

Girl, please. 

xox

C

Still Lol, omg I/m working way too fast plus in college application and pre screen video he** right now.

You make me laugh and I appreciate that. 

It's nice to be appreciated for fun things instead of as a cautionary example. 

Corey Smith, The Baseball Song, 2015

Filtering Artificiality

...I have no privacy (oh, oh)/ I always feel like somebody's watching me....

In an effort to foil Artificial Intelligence taking over the world IMMEDIATELY, the survey/ focus group/ product research company that I've become loosely affiliated with has begun to include an 'essay question' on their qualification surveys. This particular survey was about Narcolepsy, and whether I'm actually chosen or not is entirely immaterial to this post. 

One of the questions has a list of colors as responses, and the "question" is 'Select Orange as a response.' Maybe that's to see if you're a human who is paying attention, because I'm not sure how that would be a difficult one for AI to manage accurately. 

It is true, however, that I know little about AI. I've been deliberately avoiding fiddling with it on my computer, because I have no interest in helping it become smarter. I also refuse to talk to the spy device I carry in my purse or pocket. Google keeps asking me to speak aloud to its "Assistant" but I know if I do that even ONCE, the 'listening' function will wake and never go to sleep again, in order to be alert when I say "Hey, Google...." 

I also don't provide voice responses to the Automated Systems on the telephone. One particularly annoying one says "Oh, you don't have to press buttons. Just tell me how I can help you, by saying 'Customer Service' or 'Make A Payment.' I ignore that and keep touching my 'keypad' numbers. When I get a human being, (eventually), I tell them, "It's my policy to not speak to robots." They almost always say, "That's completely understandable." 

In any case, the "essay" I created has nothing to do with Narcolepsy, nothing to do with AI, and nothing to do with smart device who listen in order to target market to their users, and everything to do with me and my feelings of loss and regret. 

The prompt: If you could have dinner with any three people, past or present, who would you choose and why?

The response:

If I could have dinner with any 3 people, past or present, I'd choose my Mother before she had Alzheimer's disease, and also my Grandmother, before SHE had Alzheimer's disease, and my sister, whom I don't get to see very often. I'd have dinner with my Mom and Grand as they were in 1985, but my sister and I could be ourselves as we are now. I didn't know how much I needed to appreciate their wit and humor. I miss that about them. I miss it even more when I'm with Mother, who hasn't died, but she isn't who I think of as "My Mother" anymore. 

None of that is particularly surprising, I suppose, but the question poked me kind of sideways, and my response surprised me. Like, I was THERE with my sister and mother and Grandmother in 1985, but I wasn't yet who I AM, the person I think of as the "real" me. And "real" me didn't get a chance to enjoy Mother, or Grandmother, as much as I might have wished, because I didn't know. The last time she visited Maryland in 1998, to meet my newest baby, Grandmother was slipping into dementia.

We can create AI and Viagra, but we can't fix Alzheimer's Disease. Sigh.

Rockwell; Somebody's Watching Me (1984)