It’s not easy being me, it never was and probably never will be. What compounds the problem is the people around me – mainly my family. Oh sure, they want the best for me. Or maybe it’s what will make them look the best. When things come so easily for them, they can’t for the life of them understand why I can’t follow suit. Heck, I was even lousy as a high school mascot. But striking out on my own and forging a career – are you serious? By the way . . . did I mention that Daddy is worth billions?

Ballad of a Freewheeling Flop

My Name is Morris Bartlett Crimpanfortis V

I was held back a year in grade school because I mismanaged my social media accounts.

Mama wanted me to become an actor or a news anchor or a weathercaster, something to complement by cheerful disposition. I failed miserably. During stage plays I’d lose my place at critical times and start mouthing other peoples’ cue lines.

I miss Mama so.

Daddy is Worth Billions–and that’s supposed to Impress Me?

Daddy wanted me to do something to add legitimacy to the family tree, like becoming an architect or chemist–anything but a politician or lawyer (even though, don’t get me wrong, he relies on the latter two every waking minute of the day). As for Daddy’s lofty aspirations for me, I quickly proved that those wishful dreams were well above my limited scholarly pay grade.

A Writer of Spec Scripts–Who Woulda Thunk It?

What I enjoyed most was writing spec scripts for feature films. During high school, my treatments ran the gambit: the ferry boat captain who sold peoples’ cars while they commuted across Puget Sound; the guy who bred venomous birds that struck without provocation; and the revved up amphibious schooner that roared across boulevards with a crew of daring desperados that pulled off one successful bank heist after another.

Mama wasn’t overly impressed with my literary efforts: I wrote a script about interplanetary motorcycle gangs exploding from the depths of Crater Lake while wreaking havoc on the I-5 corridor between Vancouver, BC and Sacramento.

Other than that, my proudest moment came when I finished the treatment for a soap opera that featured people in a northern California seaside community, who reacted strangely to routine tide changes by inexplicably growing extra fingers. So they had to deal with that irksome condition in addition to all the other aspects of their sorry, sordid lives. Mama failed to see the redeeming value in any of it.

I was a High School Mascot . . . with Issues

As an underappreciated mascot at my high school on the south side of Seattle, I liked to conduct mock interviews in the locker room during halftime of big games. Dressed in my ratty Abyssinian Lion costume, players and coaches would really pitch a fit as I stuck a fake mic in their angry faces. They got so worked up they burst from the locker room and made mincemeat of the opposing team. So I guess it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Upon graduating college with a degree in communications, no one had much of an interest in hiring me. For years I languished, taking odd jobs.

Did I mention Daddy was a billionaire?

We have clawed and scratched our way back from the solar flare attack that nearly took the world down. We may not be contemplating trips to other galaxies just yet, but at least the traffic lights work. And we still may be a little lax on recursive algorithms and beam stack searches, but our dedicated techs have resuscitated the venerable fax machine. So while we’re not exactly communicating at warp speed, we’re not reduced to fumbling around in the dark either. And you thought unpaved cul-de-sacs on the moon were gauche . . .

Selling Used Cars on Mars is Gonna Have to Wait

Digging Out from the Second Great Sunspot Dilemma

Before embarking on the misadventures of Morris Crimpanfortis V and his family’s media-manic escapades, a little housekeeping is in order. The world was in recovery mode from the solar flare debacle that had occurred a decade earlier. Though not necessarily living like cavemen (as was the case following the first solar flare catastrophe), we were definitely not yet back to being at the top of our game. Revisiting 1985 technology is DEFINITELY NOT being at the top of our game.

Unpaved Cul-de-sacs on the Moon . . . how Gauche

This is how it had all gone down nearly ten years ago: no sooner had we contemplated selling used cars on Mars, then . . . WHAM! Here comes the Second Great Sunspot Dilemma. What a mess. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time. The second installment occurred just after we’d finally cleaned up from the first dilemma, a process lasting eons more than we thought it would. And to think–we’d just figured out how to plant palm trees along the boulevards of Mercury without the fronds constantly exploding in riotous combustion!

The Second Great Sunspot Dilemma differed from the initial one in terms of severity. The second iteration of the solar-induced disturbance was not nearly as devastating as the first. Maybe we were better prepared the second time around. It took less than two years to start communicating with each other again instead of the decades-long fiasco following the first worldwide outage.

Going from a Harley-Davidson Softail to a Rickety Trike

Of course, we were never the same after the first debacle. So to say we recovered quicker from the second one is not really telling the whole story. The first iteration delivered a knockout blow to engineering feats, technical marvels and digital masterpieces that had marked the supremacy of earthly dominance across a number of cosmic dimensions, only to be eclipsed by the jarring reality that nothing lasts forever. So if you considered the infrastructure and economic engine that existed before the first meltdown, it was like going from a Harley-Davidson Softail Standard to a rickety tricycle. We had barely recovered our ability to time travel when BLAM-HOOEY, here came another bout of those nasty solar flares.

Recursive Algorithms and Fluctuating Traffic Lights

We have clawed and scratched our way back. We may not be contemplating trips to other galaxies just yet, but at least the traffic lights work. And we still may be a little lax on recursive algorithms and beam stack searches, but our dedicated techs have resuscitated the venerable fax machine. So while we’re not exactly communicating at warp speed, we’re not reduced to fumbling around in the dark either.

At least the masses are not feeling it to such an extent on the moon. Then again, those zany pioneers were never really living in what you would call an “advanced civilization” to begin with. If you have any doubts, just check what it means to be “outhoused.”

A Thousand Recycled Satellite Channels–Finally!

So that’s a brief rundown of our current situation. Every now and then there’s a breakthrough: somebody figures a way to power up a long-dormant satellite so we can receive a thousand more TV channels; a cell tower here or there may be reactivated, only to flicker and falter in the next rainstorm; robots, even primitive versions that can’t think for themselves, make sporadic comebacks. Still, all the pieces of the glorious civilization have yet to coalesce in a way that will allow us to become the shining planet on the galactic hillside we once were. And though a whole generation, me included, never knew the world when it was so advanced, so sure of itself, can you blame any of us for wanting a rapid return to the superlative nature of things?

Billboards Make It Real . . . In Any Galaxy

Until then, we try making the planet the best place possible in which to live. My family’s company, Hyper-Citation, is certainly doing its part. We’re bringing outdoor advertising to new heights, and it only gets better and more daring each day. We’re also attempting to do new and innovative TV programming and that’s where I hope to someday make a meaningful and long-lasting contribution.

We look forward to that point of time when our billboards will be in other galaxies. Who knows what we’ll be advertising? And to whom? We don’t even know what basic forms of communication will be involved. All we know for sure: it’s going to be unpredictable; and it’s going to be a hoot.

So stay tuned and stay prepared to reach the hearts and minds of individuals of all walks of life–across all dimensions, all channels and all annals of time–many of whose DNA you probably wouldn’t recognize if it hit you squarely between the eyes.