O Brave New World

Bloomsday drafts his speech on a treadmill at the Lakewood Y. His musical menu includes: Brand New Day by Sting with Stevie on harmonica (warm up); the album, Eraser, by Thom York (hard momentum running, intermittent hard walk); selected songs from Todd Rundgeren (cool down). For shits 'n giggles, he rocks out to Prince's When U Were Mine and I Feel 4 U on the way home and blasts Darking Nikki in the driveway.

Inside the stone colonial, Molly and Luna snuggle like hamsters, awaiting papa.  He gathers his effects from the car and sees he has missed a phone call.  The number is not familar, with an unknown area code.  Suddenly, his hand vibrates as a new text message arrives.  It's a tweet.  "@BloomsdayDevice: How was U'r workout?"

Bloomsday's first thought is, Prince is tweeting me. But reason prevails. Another text arrives: "I'm in the cab down the street."  Bloomsday turns and looks and sees a cab parked, lurking, suspicious.  No one takes cabs in Cleveland.


He takes to the cab, walking tall. Two passengers emerge.  The stinky puppeteer and his silent companion. "Dobry den," he says.

"Dobry den," Bloomsday replies. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No hurry. As you instructed, we had waffles at Gene's Place. Delicious, I'd say."

"I believe the technical term is delicioso."

"Pardon?"

"Nevermind.  Look, I'd invite you in, but I got a new baby and a tired momma in the house. How about you take me in the cab to the destination of my choice."

"Excellent idea. We need just a half our of your time."

"Fuck that.  Your taking me to bloodymaryville.  You fly, you buy."

The stinky puppeteer surmises.  "I think I understand."

I Feel Like a Leonard Cohen Record: No One Ever Listens to Me

Sunday Epiphanies

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Moyers. Wendy. Epiphany.

Bloomsday shuts the car door and checks his pockets.  He fumbles with the ear bud wires of his music content delivery system, then walks briskly up the parking lot incline toward Cleveland Browns Stadium.  The cheapest walking distance with a view.

The giant LED on its west side shows the time:  9:08.  Technically late. Practically, not.


Bloomsday bisects the Jesse Owens/Police Memorial Plaza, at the northeast corner of Sheriff McPoodley-Roo's Way.  As he approaches a cannon, aimed squarely at him in the center of the square, he see's something he hasn't before.  Two men in European suits and sunglasses waiting for him.

"Dobry den," one says to him.  "Are you not Bloomsday?"

Bloomsday recognizes that accent.  "Dobry den.  You'll have to follow me.  I'm late."  The two men suddenly spring into action, placing themselves on either side, tripping to keep up.

"We understand you are a man of the people."

"Sure," I say.  "Aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but not the American People.  I was born in Czechoslovakia.  I now live in the Czech Republic. I never moved."

"That's funny." I say. The other man is suspiciously silent.  I stop outside the doors of the justice center. "Gotta go, guys.  What can I do for you?"

"We are here on behalf of the Government of the Czech Republic.  We wish to make you an Honorary Ambassador to our country, and extend membership in our Order of the Finicky Eaters."

"Excuse me?"

"That's not it's real name.  Only members know the real name."

"Why me?"

"Because you're on television, dummy."

"Oh, you know your Paddy Chayefsky."

"Actually, I know my Ned Beatty."

"So, I'm in. Great. What do I have to do?"

"You'll be invited to Prague for a ceremony. There is an award. You give a speech. We pay you."

"I feel that there's something you're not telling me.  What's the catch?"

"Our government has taken great interest in the story of The Thinker. We think you are an excellent resource on the topic."

"Yeah, me and Sister Wendy."

"Who?"

"Nevermind.  This is getting a little Kafkaesque."

"That's funny you should say that. Prague and all.  Cleveland's a lot like Prague."

"Yes, but we have no Kafka."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Mr. Bloomsday."  He lean's heavily into me, as if casting a spell.  I recognize him.  Years ago.  The Stinky Puppeteer.  It was a puppet production of Eurydice.  Orpheus. Our second night in Prague. The tiny, cramped theater stunk of the unwashed.  It was him above the tangle of strings.

"Meet me at the museum at noon.  At The Thinker."  Bring cash, Bloomsday thinks to add, but doesn't. He pushes his way through the revolving door of the justice center, leaving his new friends in the cold.

Beauty, Eh?

The Greatest American Novel is About the Rise and Fall of a Governor