Ever since reading my first time loop-based book as a preteen, Iāve had a Secret Time Loop Code Word. Itās been the same word all these years. Iāve never written it down anywhere or told anyone what it is, just kept it tucked away in my brain. That way, if someone I know ever confided in me that they were stuck in a time loop, I would have a way to confirm it: I would tell them the time loop code word and instruct them to find and talk to me again on the next loop. Of course, if itās a time loop, I wouldnāt remember telling them the code word. But theyād remember it. So if someone ever came to me and said āIām stuck in a time loop, and the time loop code word is [X],ā and it was indeed the word Iāve secretly held onto for most of my life, I would know that we had had this conversation in a previous loop and that they were telling the truth.
Will this ever be useful? Almost certainly not. But hey, thereās nothing wrong with having a completely absurd contingency plan. In case of time loops.
It was nightās like these where the world felt alive. Wind whistled in the streets like a serenade by a band that was something of a mix between 21 pilots and 21 pilots.Ā Fog fogged up everything. The sky was grey. And the air tasted like tacos. A woman with hair the color of frosted cinnamon rolls wearing a shirt tie-dyed with pure, raw emotion, sat in the uppermost window of a dramatic tower, thoughtfully thinking. She sipped her iced tea. And inspiration came down hard on her head like a camel who had just slid in a puddle of slimy bubble solution.
She thought thoughts like this very often, for you see, she was a cavalier of romance, a waver of the flag of beauty, a herald of fandoms everywhere. A fanfictionalist. And tonight, as she breathed in the profound smell of tacos she could almost hear the bells of fanfiction mournfully tolling in the distance. Tonight was the night. She would write the most legendary crossover in all of history. She smiled the devilish smile of devilishness and began.
Ā Ā Ā Ā I am applying for a new job. Being a narrator doesnāt pay much. Today I configured a resume, decided that I hated it, deleted it, spent two hours trying to figure out the proper way to spell resume, and then wallowed in misery for the rest of the day wrapped in a picnic blanket and playing Persona 5.Ā
All in all Iād say it was quite a productive day. Tomorrow, I am volunteering in the annual Fall Festival selling donuts (because I needed to put that on my resume). I was quite excited until I realized that no one ever comes to the Fall Festival except elderly people and tourists. Would you like to come to the Fall Festival? Iāll save you a donut.Ā
But I did not set about to tell you about donuts and resumes today (as interesting as they may be). I came to place a very important question at your feet. One that has affected many generations of people, and will continue to be hotly debated in whatever local places people do their hot debating. The question is this: coffee, or tea?Ā
I do not like coffee. I do not like tea. I enjoy a very strict diet of anything that is more than half constituted of sugar. But it makes me wonder, why do people like coffee, or tea? Why do they taste very different to each person? The substance doesn't change. The tongue and its tasting parts that you probably learned in a middle school science project that didn't quite work out stays the same. It is the person that differs. Does coffee taste specifically different to each person? What affects the taste, then? Are our preferences set within us? Are they born from circumstances? Why do you like coffee, why do you like tea?
Middle schoolers should not be allowed to do anything. They should be equipped with safety glasses and hard hats before venturing outside, with no patch of sticky, clammy skin left exposed.Ā Along with allergies, warnings such as ātendency for violenceā or āenjoys repeatedly slamming doorsā should be printed in red letters under their nametags. I vote we create new summer camp legislation. No middle schooler should enter the bathroom without signing a waiver.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā You may respond to this with the gentle nostalgia of someone who has never worked as a camp counselor. āBut you were a middle schooler once!ā You might protest. Untrue, my family and I decided to skip this time of life for the benefit of all.
Much like Jesus, it took me moments to grow in wisdom and stature from child to quiet adult. The analogy does not extend as far as the āfavor with God and menā part. God continued to send me confusing signals, and most of the men in my life at that time threw markers at me and gesticulated in German. I did speak German (eventually), but I didnāt speak āMan.ā I once showed up to class during the World Cup. Sitting in the empty classroom, I waited out the prescribed 15 minutes for a teacher, classmate, or anyone to show up. After I convinced myself that a selective rapture of German music students (maybe just the good ones) had occurred, I saw a blur of black, red, and gold rush by the window as students in fan gear paraded across campus.
So, in my childhood wisdom, I skipped the phenomenon of American middle school and entered right into the meat of life: doubt, video games, and capitalism. The college thing didnāt really pan out, but the summer camp job remained steady.
Do you think Jesus ever mourned the fact that he outgrew his parents? I outgrew their health insurance at age 26. Which seems like a good time in life to figure yourself out. New address, new credit card number, new health insurance. All the trappings of a true adult. But Iāll tell you the first time you drive to the emergency room, all you can think about is your parents. You revert to a child, asking: where do I park? Do I sit here? Can you help me? Maybe unconsciously I remembered the very first time my birthday had been printed on a hospital bracelet. The very first occurrence of the day that would become the rest of my life. My social science teacher was right: hospitals are institutions of birth and death. We shut all that stuff in one place, but when you return there too early, in the in-between time, all the liminal sounds and devices seem wrong. And when something seems wrong, you look for your parents.
This isnāt a thought process I came up with at the hospital, but some deep reminiscence of my socialized brain: optimistically projecting meaning onto every encounter. In the moment, I actually mused on the stupidity of middle schoolers.
Somewhere in between āparentā and āeldritch creatureā is the camp counselor. So, let me wrap this ramble back to the original story I wanted to get across to you: which is that middle schoolers should be wrapped in bubble wrap, then stored, counted, and supervised like laboratory samples. Because the safety lecture given before the kids began their community service cleanup project was not enough, and I had a bloody, rusty nail in my pocket to prove it.
I texted my boss that unfortunately, I needed to use my phone for reasons related to the emergency, and could not call the kiddoās parents to explain the situation. Letās be honest: I donāt have the ability to explain any situation. My excuse was not a lie: my phone was in use, by a grumpy middle school boy with his bandaged foot propped on a chair playing āGeometry Dash.ā He tilted the screen and handed it behind his head to me.
āCan you beat this level?ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Recently Iāve adopted a new sleep schedule. I fall asleep around 10:00 PM, contained under a weighted blanket and sleep mask, my Night Phone spitting rain noises through its damaged speaker. When I wake up, usually around 2:00 AM (my body has been surprisingly consistent about this), I drift downstairs to check emails on my Day Phone and make a cup of tea. I have a peaceful hour of productivity before going back to sleep until noon.
Ā Last night, I decided to take my tea outside and observe the stars. By stars, I mean the twinkling movement of lights and traffic that centralize into constellations on the city outskirts.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Itās 2:09 AM. But the man who lives below me is out on his balcony, staring, staring, like heās going to predict the future from traffic patterns. I wonder what heās looking at before I remember he canāt see. I apologize, internally, because this is one of those apologies that would make things worse if spoken. āSorry sir, I forgot you were blind.ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Itās dark and I canāt make out the railing in front of me, but he can, hand reaching forward for a second before he finds the chipped metal bar. I walk forward too, feeling until I find the railing. That stuff is solid, man. This is what we should make the containment cells for middle school summer campers out of. Although Iād be worried about their concussive properties. I can hear it now: the clang of someoneās head against the metal barrier, and the offended yelp. Then the stuttered wail for Mom or Dad.
I guess the reason all that Backrooms stuff has never really fazed me is because I worked in on-site networking support for a while, and literally every city's downtown district is just Like That once you get off the beaten path. Not just the really big cities, either; the one I'm currently living in has a population of less than 250 000 ā metro area included ā and a downtown area about six blocks across, and the service corridors still manage to do some House of Leaves shit. At one point I was trying to map the route of a misbehaving network cable, started out in a shopping mall parking garage, and ended up surfacing in the basement of the casino across the street. Totally unsecured ā apparently neither the mall's administration nor the casino's managers knew that particular service corridor existed.
Like, I once bumped into a fully stocked and operational Coke machine in an unlit maintenance corridor twenty feet below ground level. Its display lighting was the only illumination for a hundred yards in either direction. I don't even know what it was plugged into.
Yes! There's no fully accurate map of the Pedway pedestrian tunnel network that runs under a huge chunk of the downtown loop, so I used to go spelunking in it. At one point I ended up in an unlit stairwell down a long empty hall that only had stairs going up and a Pepsi branded soda machine which appeared to serve no one. The stairs eventually spat me out at ground level in the southwest corner of the loop.
Good times, I should go back to doing that once the weather turns cold. Also enjoyed the time I ended up in the Eternal Underground Parking Garage on the east side of the loop.
Iāve never been to Chicago but based on the reputation, that sounds like a good way to get murdered??? Please be careful, I like reading about your day to day @copperbadge š
LOL! Well, the pedway isn't very well known to anyone outside of commuters and the occasional weirdo like me; it's really just like, "a bunch of basement levels of downtown office buildings connected by tunnels, plus some train stations". I've never had anyone bother me down there, even the occasional unhoused person getting out of the cold in the winter. Unless a cryptid gets me, and I like to think I'm a friend to most cryptids.
God I could wish. It sounds like so much fun. Like being a regency hermit. If you need a cryptid, give me a call. I guarantee to be weird and Eldritch (that's the neurodivergence).
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Have you ever used an espresso machine? I did for the first time yesterday. I won it in a raffle at the Fall Festival a few months ago (likely because I was the only person who entered the raffle). It became the nicest thing I own next to my collectorās edition Pokemon Adventures box set. Iām sure youāre wondering why I hadnāt actually used the espresso machine until yesterday. Honestly, I donāt remember. I have a vague memory of some sort of news story on "recalled espresso machines" and "burn risks." But Iām sure they wouldnāt have put any sort of dangerous item up for winning at the fall festival, would they?Ā
So yesterday, I took my espresso machine out of the box and set it in a place of honor on my countertop. Meditatively, I arranged the various bits and bobs around the contraption in a ritual sort of semicircle. And slowly, I crafted my coffee: the-leveled off scoop of grounds, the snug, magical little cup, the silver handle that clicked perfectly into place.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā I hope at least some of you can appreciate this. I hope you can appreciate the timeliness of coffee, the piousness of its process. How you wait as the earthy, austere smell builds and steams until it becomes reality.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā I placed my favorite mugĀ in the care of this espresso machine. It had a cartoon green cat on it glistening with clumsy, bumpy enamel. Iād had the mug since I was twelve.Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Filling it to the brim with frothed milk, I carefully pinched the handle towards me. A heated hiss. The machine, not satisfied with its perfectly-ordered routine, released the rest of its liquid in a scalding spurt. As I snatched back my hand, the mug tipped and rolled. Perfect coffee splashed over the under-counter cabinetsāall at once at first, and then a quiet drip. Drip. drip. My favorite mug lay shattered on the floor, flecks of weak, cartoon green visible.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Thereās a phrase: āthereās no use crying over spilt milk.ā We understand the significance of these words: we understand the stinging metaphor, we see the spilt milk on the ground. We arrange words and history ritualistically; we spill stories that crack people open leaving a drip. Drip. drip. You donāt walk away from spilt milk.Ā
Because the next step is to get on your knees with a wet rag.Ā
But oh well, thatās just how it goes. Milk and floor. Cycle of life!
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā This isnāt really relevant to todayās topic. I just wanted you to grieve my cat mug with me. In fact, I donāt actually have a topic. I was thinking we could talk about feelings! What are you feeling today beloved readers? Happy? Sad? Ferociously murderous? Soggy?Ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā At the moment I am half-tuned into the news, as Iām sure many of you are as well. Itās a little distracting: the surging crowds, the flashing cameras. I think Iāve caught sight of a couple old-fashioned picket signs. And watching it all unfold, the high and mighty Crusaders in all their spandex-d glory stand before a surge of faces looking expectant and angry, I see the heroes weāve all looked up to now looking down, faltering for words. I donāt care about the scandals, the supposed dirty compromises, or the failure of a shining team of heroes who donāt have the guts to face their mistakes. Did you see the picture of the boy who lost everything and his sister who canāt even get the privacy to grieve?Ā
Ā Ā Ā And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we canāt have nice things. The nicer they are, the more pieces they break into.Ā
But oh well, whatās the use crying over spilled milk?Ā
(transcript because I couldnāt find one in the notes)
Stephen Colbert: A lot of writers say they were nerdy kids, unpopular, like outcasts, or that sort of thing; was that your experience growing up?
BJ Novak: I think thatās exaggerated, I think a lot of people love to say, āoh I was such a nerdā or āI was such a rebel, I sat in the back of the busā. Most people sat in the middle of the bus. Thatās how buses work. So, you know, people say-
Colbert: So you were sitting in the middle?
Novak: Yeah, thatās where I sat! I mean, I did my homework and y'know, dreamed of being a bit of a rebel. I did a very nerdy version of rebellion, which I guess is sort of my way of balancing where I sat on the bus.
When I was 14, I got it in my head that I wanted a fake ID. and I committed what- the only term for it is āidentity theftā, to get this fake ID. So this is the kind of nerd- Iāve never told this story before, this is pretty much the nerdiest way you can be like, āa bad kidā. I went to the Newton library where I grew up, and I went through their polling recordsā¦ buckle in.
Colbert: I think youāve already - just that sentence has violated a federal law, but go ahead.
Novak: Yeah, thereās a handful of these, and I actually tried to google the statute of limitations on this before the show and couldnāt get the WiFi.
Colbert: Okay.
Novak: So I looked up -this is true- I looked up someone that was 21 years old, through their polling records.
Colbert: And youāre 14.
Novak: I was 14 years old, I looked up someone who was 21 who had my same first name and initial, because I thought, āif I get drunkā -I had never been drunk. I was like, āif I forget my name, I canāt get bustedā. So I found someone who was āBenjamin J. [something]ā. So I found this guyās name and I thought, āif I can just forge all his documents, I can go to the DMV and say I lost my license and theyāll give me a new license with his pictureā, this is my plan. Ā
So first I need to know where heās born so I can get his birth certificate, so I call his house. I ask for him, I donāt know what i would have done, I get his brother and I say āI work with Ben, weāre doing a crossword puzzle based on his life for his birthday. Can you tell me what town he was born in?ā. So he told me and I took the subway there and I got his birth certificate.
Colbert: How- You went to the- You went to like the county clerk and said-
Novak: They didnāt ask for ID, they just gave me his birth certificate. Then I opened up a mailbox in his name and wrote- I was 14, I didnāt know what i was doing- I wrote to the IRS.
Colbert: Uh-huhā¦
Novak: And I filled out tax forms in his name. And then I went to the DMV and said āI lost my wallet and I need to-this is all i haveā. And i looked 14 years old, but I had these documents, so they sent me to the backroom with this woman who sized me up and said āI canāt give you this, you donāt even have a pictureā, and then said with a wry smile on her face, āOpen your wallet right now.ā
and like a true method actor, the only thing I had in my wallet was a library card I had signed in his name.
And she approved it, and for the rest of high school I had this actual driverās license, with my picture on it.
[audience cheering]
Novak: Iām glad we have some support. You have a look on your face- I donāt know if that was funny or if you just broke the lawā¦
Colbert: It was fantastic, I just hope you have a good lawyer.
āI was 14, I didnāt know what I was doingā said of a caper pulled off with a calculated, methodical demeanor that would make Hannibal Lecter blush
